This season of Love Island is packed with surprises. Friendships will be tested, alliances will shift and complications in the villa will keep everyone on their toes. Relationships will form and passion will run high, but with drama everywhere and twists around every corner, nothing is ever simple. It’s messy, unpredictable and totally addictive. Are you ready for it...?
pairings: rafe cameron x fem!reader
content: fluff, angst, smut
warnings: sexual innuendos, cuss words, 18+ content, smut, drinking, verbal arguments, breakdowns, drama
a guide before reading the love island series
episodes:
episode 1: welcome to the villa
episode 2: the bombshell effect
episode 3: dear stranger
episode 4: ex marks the spot
episode 5: tangled hearts
episode 6: handle with care
episode 7: sparks fly
episode 8: kiss it better, baby
episode 9: imperfect for you
episode 10: this is why we can't have nice things
episode 11: purple lace bra
episode 12: after midnight
episode 13: pick me, choose me, love me
episode 14: brutal
episode 15: the one with the blue party
episode 16: bed chem
episode 17: running out of time
behind the scenes:
introductions: rafe edition
introductions: y/n edition
meet the islanders (girls edition)
meet the islanders (boys edition)
meet the islanders (y/n & rafe edition)
meet the islanders (bombshells edition)
meet the islanders (bombshells edition pt 2)
meet the islanders (bombshell edition pt 3)
meet the islanders (casa amor boys edition)
meet the islanders (casa amor girls edition)
kissing challenge results
follow @drewsephrryslibrary & turn on your notifications for fic updates!!!
(inspo for this series: @finelinevogue @rafecameronssl4t)
Summary: Everyone at Venturer knows two things for certain.
Declan O’Hara hates losing control.
And Y/N has been hopelessly in love with him for far too long.
Unfortunately for them, everyone else seems to know that too.
Between late-night meetings, whiskey-fuelled dinners, chaotic gatherings at Rupert Campbell-Black’s house and endless unresolved tension, the line between friendship and something far more dangerous starts to blur. Declan refuses to admit what he feels — until jealousy, sharp words and one disastrous dinner party finally break the fragile balance between them.
Now forced to face everything they’ve avoided for years, both must decide whether they’re brave enough to ruin their friendship for something real.
Or whether they already have.
Warnings: angst, miscommunication, jealousy, emotional repression, friends to lovers, slow burn, alcohol consumption, sexual content, explicit language.
a/n: let’s just say my obsession with Declan O’Hara is officially back and I’m feeling deeply delusional about it 😭 keep in mind not everything is exactly like the books/show. I took some creative liberties while writing this. also, Declan is divorced in this story.
don't forget, all characters belong to Jilly Cooper — I'm simply borrowing them, bending them slightly to my own delusions, and returning them (mostly) unharmed. Y/N is yours, as always.
english isn’t my first language, so if you spot any mistakes feel free to tell me nicely <3 please be kind and leave your thoughts!! I’d genuinely love to hear them. ily bye <3
Pairing: Lando Norris x EX!Personal Assistant!Reader
Description: You're Lando Norris's former personal assistant—fired eighteen months ago after he told you he loved you in a Qatar hotel room, then panicked. Now he's a World Champion with a new girlfriend and a mess of an assistant, and he needs you back. Just for two weeks of training, he says. Except Lando's never been good at keeping things professional, and some feelings don't stay buried.
Genre: second chance romance, forced proximity, angst with a happy ending, workplace-adjacent tension, emotional groveling, he's down BAD
WC: 21k
Note: Firstly, I want to apologize for how long this took to put out. I really struggled with finding the ending that felt right. And the paragraphs may feel overwhelming in length—I hit the 1,000 block limit like 40 times and had to condense everything. I proofread, stopped, then proofread again because it didn't feel good enough, and the cycle continued. So, about half is proofread and half isn't, which means there could be errors. Thank you for your patience and your kind words. I want to wish you Happy Holidays if you celebrate, and I'll continue doing my best with this little hobby of mine.
Leaving your job is the best thing that's ever happened to you. That's what you tell yourself, anyway. That's what you've been telling yourself for a year and a half now, and if you say it enough times, eventually it might feel true. The severance package Lando gave you was obscene. Guilt money, obviously, even though you're not calling it that out loud, but that's what it is—guilty money, hush money, please don't sue me for firing you thirty seconds after I came inside you money. Enough that you don't need to work. Enough that you're free.
Free. You're so fucking free that you've tried pottery three times and hated it every single time. You're so free that you've reorganized your closet by color, then by season, then by color again because the first way was better. You're so free that last Tuesday you stood in the shower and counted to three hundred just to see if you could.
The clay fights you. That's what they don't tell you about pottery. Your hands cramp and the instructor keeps saying feel the clay's energy like the clay has energy, like the clay is anything other than wet dirt that collapses the second you think you're getting somewhere. You even tried running. Running is just you and your thoughts for however many miles you can stand. Not ideal. Not even close to ideal. Guitar's gathering dust in the corner. Duolingo sends you passive-aggressive notifications about your streak. You've considered learning Portuguese but that feels pointed, feels like something you shouldn't examine too closely.
Two weeks ago, Lando Norris won the World Championship. You watched it from your apartment because you're a masochist, apparently. You sat on your couch in Monaco and watched him spray champagne and cry and lift the trophy, and you thought, good for him. You thought, I'm happy for him. You thought those things and none of them were true.
Last Friday he went to the FIA Prize Giving ceremony in Rwanda with his beautiful girlfriend to collect his trophy. The photos were everywhere. Every sports website, every F1 account, probably on the fucking news in countries that don't even have racing. His girlfriend, Magui, wore a black dress that made her look like a goddess reincarnated. He wore a tuxedo. They looked like they were attending their own wedding. That's a thought you're not examining. That way lies madness.
You abandon your collapsing bowl. Scrub the clay off your hands—it gets under your fingernails, stays there for hours. The instructor asks if you're signing up for next week. "I'll think about it," you say.
You're not signing up. You already know you're not signing up. Outside, Monaco is cold for December. Your apartment is fifteen minutes away if you walk fast, twelve if you're really moving. You've timed it. You don't go home, and you tell yourself you're just walking. Just getting some air. Just clearing your head after an hour of fighting with clay that had no interest in becoming anything other than a lopsided mess. That's what you tell yourself, and maybe it's even true. Except you're walking toward the harbor instead of toward your apartment, which is the opposite direction, which means you're either lost in your own city or you're lying to yourself. Probably the second one.
And the wonderful thing about Monaco is that it's small. Stupidly small. You can walk from one end to the other in under an hour. Which means you can't really avoid anything, can't really escape anyone, can't really pretend you're not living in the same two square kilometers as—you stop that thought before it finishes.
There's a sports bar on the corner. The kind that has screens covering every available wall, the kind that shows every race, every match, every game that matters. You've walked past it a hundred times. You've never gone in.
Today, you're going in. Just for a drink, you tell yourself. Just for one drink because it's cold outside and your apartment is empty and you're allowed to get a drink at a sports bar without it meaning anything. The bartender is maybe twenty-five, definitely Australian, probably works here because Monaco is where F1 people end up when they're not important enough to actually work in F1. He looks up when you walk in.
"What can I get you?"
"Vodka tonic." He makes it. You don't drink it. Instead, you just hold it and look at the screens because that's what you do in sports bars, you look at the screens. There are eight screens total. Three of them are showing football. Two are showing tennis. One is showing some sport you don't recognize—maybe rugby, maybe something else entirely. And one is showing a replay of the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix. The final lap. Lando crossing the line. The radio message. The celebration. You watch him climb out of the car. Watch him collapse into his team's arms. Watch the whole thing you already watched two weeks ago from your couch, except now you're watching it in a bar in Monaco while a drunk British guy three seats down yells "FUCKING LEGEND" at the screen.
The bartender notices you watching. "You follow F1?"
"Not really," you lie.
"Shame. That race was incredible. Norris finally did it, you know? After all these years."
"Yeah. I heard."
"Best season I've ever seen. Guy's a machine." He's polishing a glass, still talking. "And his girlfriend, mate. You seen her? Absolute smoke show."
You finish your vodka tonic in one go. It burns. "Another?" the bartender asks.
"No. Thanks." You pay and leave. Outside, the cold air hits you like a slap. You start walking. Not toward home. Just walking again. The thing about Lando firing you is that you still don't understand it. You've had a year and a half to make it make sense and it doesn't. It will never make sense.
He'd looked at you. Really looked at you, the way he used to in hotel rooms and empty conference rooms and all those in-between moments when it was just the two of you and nothing else in the world mattered. He'd touched your face. You'd touched his. For one perfect second, you'd thought maybe this is it, maybe this is where everything gets fixed. Then his expression changed and he'd pulled away and gotten dressed like he couldn't stand to be near you anymore.
I fucking love you, he'd said. In that hotel room in Qatar, buried inside your cunt, saying it like it was being torn out of him. Like he couldn't help it. Like he actually meant the fucking words. And then ten minutes later, boom, you're fired.
Just like that. You're fired. Two words that ended everything. You've spent eighteen months trying to figure out how someone tells you they love you and then removes you from their life entirely. How someone can look at you like you're the only person who matters and then just stop. Just move on. Just win a championship and fall in love with someone else and be happy, be so fucking happy that you can see it in every photo, every interview, every goddamn Instagram story.
He touches her differently than he touched you. He touches her casually. His hand on her waist, his fingers interlaced with hers, easy and comfortable and public. Like he's allowed to. Like it's simple. He never touched you like that. He touched you like he was desperate. Like he was trying to memorize the feeling. Like he was afraid—of what, you still don't know. Afraid you'd disappear, maybe? Afraid someone would see? Afraid it meant something.
It did mean something. It meant everything. At least it did to you. You miss him. That's the pathetic truth of it all. You miss him so much that sometimes you can't breathe. You miss his 3 AM phone calls. You miss fixing his disasters. You miss the way he'd look at you when he thought you weren't paying attention, like he was trying to figure out a puzzle he couldn't solve. You miss the feeling of him. His hands, his mouth, the weight of him, the way he'd say your name like it meant something.
You miss all of it and he's moved on and you're walking through Monaco at sunset thinking about someone who fired you eighteen months ago and probably hasn't thought about you since.
Your doorbell rings at 9:16 PM on December 19th. You're not expecting anyone. You consider ignoring it—consider pretending you're not home, consider going back to the book you're not reading. mBut, then, the doorbell rings again.
You should just pretend you're not home. Should pretend a lot of things that aren't walking to the door. You walk to the door anyway. Look through the peephole and your heart stops. Actually fucking stops in your chest. Lando Norris is standing in your hallway. He's wearing a cream Loewe sweatshirt and jeans, one hand shoved in his pocket while the other coddles his phone, and he's looking at it like he has all the time in the world. His hair is also shorter than it was in Qatar.
So, you do the only rational thing, the totally rational thing, and open the door. "Finally." He looks up from his phone. "I was about to use the spare key."
"You don't have a spare key."
"Don't I?" He walks past you into your apartment before you can stop him. "Nice place. Very clean and entirely very sad."
"Excuse me?"
"It looks like no one actually lives here." He's examining your bookshelf now, tilting his head to read the spines. "When did you become this person?"
"What are you doing here, Lando."
"Came to see you, obviously." He picks up a book, flips through it, puts it back in the wrong spot. "How've you been?"
"How have I been? Are you fucking kidding me?"
"Yeah. How are you? What've you been up to? Pottery, I heard. That's cute."
Your stomach drops. "How did you know about pottery."
"I know things." He sits on your couch. Your couch. Like he belongs there. "You quit that too, I assume. Seems to be your pattern lately."
"My pattern."
"Quitting things. Pottery, yoga, that book club." He gestures at your apartment. "Living like a goddamn ghost."
"Get out."
"In a second. I need to talk to you about something first." He leans back, arms spread across the back of your couch. "The new assistant isn't working out."
You stare at him. "Emma. She's trying, I'll give her that. But she's not you. Doesn't think like you. Doesn't anticipate things like you did." He says it so casually. Like he's commenting on the weather. "She's kind of useless, actually."
"And?"
"And I need you to train her."
The audacity. The fucking audacity of Lando Norris. "Are you insane?"
"No. Why would I be insane?"
"You fired me."
"I know. I was there."
"You fired me eighteen months ago and now you're asking me to train your replacement."
"She's not your replacement. That would imply she's anywhere near as competent as you were. Which she's not." He examines his nails. "I'm asking you to train her so she can be at least seventy percent as useful as you were. That's all."
"Get out of my apartment."
"Why are you being so difficult about this? It's a simple request. A few weeks of your time. I'll pay you whatever you want. You're not exactly busy." His eyes flick around your apartment. "Are you."
"That's not the point."
"Then what is the point?"
"The point is you fired me. The point is you told me I was done. The point is you haven't spoken to me in a year and a half and now you show up here like nothing happened."
"Something happened?"
You want to hit him. Want to actually punch the asshole in the face. "Qatar. Something happened in Qatar."
"Oh, that." He waves a hand. "Ancient history. We've both moved on."
"Have we."
"Haven't we? You have your pottery classes. I have my championship." He smiles. That smile. The one that used to make you feel like you were in on a joke and now just makes you want to scream. "We're both doing great."
"Lando."
"What?"
"Get the fuck out."
"I'm at the Fairmont. Room 412." He stands up, stretches. "Think about it. I need an answer by tomorrow morning."
"The answer is no."
"Sure it is." He's walking toward the door. Pauses with his hand on the doorknob. "You look good, by the way. Tired, but good."
He leaves before you can respond. You stand there in your apartment. Your very clean, very empty apartment. Your heart is doing something in your chest and your hands are shaking. Lando Norris showed up after eighteen months and asked you to train his assistant like it was the most reasonable request in the world. Made you feel crazy for being angry. Commented on your home and your pottery classes and the fact that you're living like a ghost. How does he know about the pottery classes. How does he know anything?
You walk to your couch. The cushion where he sat is still slightly compressed and you stare at it. He knows about pottery. About yoga. About the book club you got kicked out of. He's been watching. Or keeping track. Or something. For eighteen months you thought he'd forgotten about you entirely. That you'd been erased from his life as cleanly as you'd been erased from his Instagram captions. And now it turns out he's been aware of you this whole time. Aware enough to know about pottery classes in Monaco. Aware enough to know you quit.
The Fairmont is twelve minutes from here if you walk fast. You're not going to the Fairmont. You're not training Emma. You're not doing any of it. You lasted forty-seven minutes before you grabbed your keys.
When you enter Fairmont hotel, you walk past the front desk without making eye contact with anyone, past the bar where well-dressed people are having well-dressed conversations, past the elevator bank to the one marked for floors three through six.
You press the button. Wait. Watch the numbers descend. Four, three, two, one. The doors open and you step inside before you can change your mind. Fourth floor. Room 412. The elevator is playing jazz, soft and inoffensive, the kind of music designed to make you forget you're in a metal box suspended by cables. You watch the numbers climb. One, two, three, four. The doors open.
The hallway is long and carpeted in a pattern that's probably meant to be elegant but just makes you slightly dizzy if you look at it too long. Room 412 is at the end, past eleven other rooms, past the ice machine, past the window that overlooks the harbor. You stand there for a moment. The door is dark wood with a brass handle and a number plaque that's slightly crooked. You can hear voices from one of the other rooms, muffled by walls and distance. Someone's watching television. Someone else is laughing. You knock on Lando's door.
The door opens immediately, like he was standing right there, like he was waiting.
"Took you long enough," Lando says. He's changed. Different sweatshirt, this one grey, same jeans. His hair is still damp like he showered after leaving your apartment, and you can smell his soap from here—clean and you don't recognize it but that fits him anyway, fits this version of him that exists in hotel rooms and galas and Instagram posts with his girlfriend.
"Can I come in or are you going to make me stand in the hallway?"
He steps aside and you walk in. The room is bigger than you expected, bigger than it needs to be for one person. There's a king bed with white sheets, a sitting area with a couch and two chairs, a desk by the window with a view of the harbor that's probably spectacular in daylight but right now just shows darkness and distant lights. His suitcase is open on the floor, clothes spilling out in a way that's chaotic and familiar and makes your fingers itch to organize it. There's a bottle of champagne on the desk. Two glasses next to it.
"You knew I'd come," you say.
"Of course I knew." He closes the door behind you. "You always come." The certainty in his voice makes you want to scream.
"Don't flatter yourself."
"I'm not flattering myself. I'm stating facts." He walks past you to the desk, picks up the champagne bottle, examines the label like it matters. "You lasted, what, an hour?"
"Forty-seven minutes."
"Forty-seven minutes." He looks at you now, really looks at you, and there's something in his expression that you can't read, something that might be satisfaction or might be something else entirely. Either way, you don't entertain the thought. "You counted."
"I count everything now."
"I know you do." He says it so casually, like it's obvious, like of course he knows. And maybe he does know. Maybe he knows about the counting and the pottery and the book club and every other pathetic thing you've been doing for the past eighteen months while he's been winning championships and falling in love.
"How do you know about the pottery classes?" you ask.
"I told you. I know things."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer you're getting." He pours champagne into both glasses even though you haven't said you want any. "Emma will be there on Monday. I need you there by nine."
"I didn't say yes."
"You're here, aren't you?"
He hands you a glass and you take it. You're not sure as to why you take it but you do, and now you're standing in his hotel room holding champagne and trying to remember how you got here, trying to remember the exact sequence of decisions that led from your apartment to this moment. "This is insane," you say.
"Probably."
"You fired me."
"I remember."
"You told me you loved me and then you fired me."
Something flickers across his face. Fast, there and gone before you can identify it. "That was a while ago."
"So?"
"So we've both moved on." He takes a sip of his champagne, watching you over the rim of the glass. "Haven't we?"
"I don't know, have we?"
"You tell me." He sets his glass down on the desk, leans back against it. "You're the one who showed up at my hotel room at ten PM."
"You literally asked me to."
"I asked you to think about training Emma. I didn't ask you to come here." He tilts his head, studying you in that way he used to. "But here you are anyway."
You hate that he's right. Hate that he knew exactly what would happen when he showed up at your apartment. Hate that after eighteen months of nothing, he can still make you do exactly what he wants with barely any effort at all. "Why me?" you ask. "Why not hire someone else to train her? Someone who doesn't have a history with you?"
"Because no one else knows how I work."
"That's not a good enough reason."
"It's the only reason." He crosses his arms. "You know my schedule better than I do. You know what I need before I need it. You know how to fix problems before they become problems. No one else can do that."
"Emma could learn."
"Emma is twenty-three years old and terrified of me. Every time I ask her a question she looks like she's going to cry." He says it without sympathy, just a simple observation, a simple fact. "She's not you."
Your stomach lurches, "Good. She shouldn't be me."
"Why not?"
"Because being me got me fired."
"No." He pushes off from the desk, takes a step closer. "Being you got you promoted from assistant to whatever we were. Getting fired came after."
"After you decided you were done with me."
"I never said I was done with you."
"You fired me. That's pretty definitive."
"Is it?" He's close enough now that you can see the exact color of his eyes in the hotel room lighting—that blue-green that changes depending on what he's wearing, what the weather is, what mood he's in. Right now they're darker, more blue than green, and fixed on you with an intensity that makes your stomach twist. "Because here you are. In my hotel room. Eighteen months later. Doesn't seem very definitive to me."
You should leave. Should put down the champagne glass you're still holding, should walk out of this hotel room, should tell him to train Emma himself or hire someone else or figure it the fuck out on his own. You don't leave.
"Monday," he says. "Nine AM. MTC. I'll have everything ready for you—schedules, systems, all of it. Two weeks. That's all I need."
"And after two weeks?"
"After two weeks you go back to your life. Pottery classes or whatever else you're doing to pass the time." The dismissiveness in his tone makes you want to throw your champagne in his face.
"I want double your normal consulting rate," you say instead.
"Done."
"And I'm not working with you directly. Just Emma."
"Fine."
"And if she's actually incompetent, if she can't learn this, I'm out. I'm not babysitting someone who can't do the job."
"She can learn. She's not stupid, she's just not you." He picks up his champagne glass again. "Anything else?"
"Yeah. What does your girlfriend think about this?" The question comes out before you can stop it. You watch his expression carefully, looking for any sign that it bothers him, that the mention of Magui does something to him the way the thought of her does something to you.
Nothing. His expression doesn't change at all. "Magui doesn't care about my work arrangements," he says.
"You told her you're hiring your ex-assistant as a consultant?"
"I told her I'm getting help training the new hire. She said that's great." He takes another sip. "She's very supportive." Of course Magui is supportive and understanding and completely unthreatened by the fact that her boyfriend is hiring the woman he fired after sleeping with her. Of course she's goddamn utterly perfect.
"Monday," you say. "Nine AM. Two weeks. Then I'm done."
"Deal." He sets his glass down, extends his hand like this is a business transaction, like you're colleagues making an agreement and not two people who destroyed each other eighteen months ago.
You shake his hand. His palm is warm, rough with calluses from the steering wheel, and the touch of it against your skin makes something in your chest crack open. He doesn't let go immediately. Just holds your hand for a beat too long, his thumb brushing once against your knuckles in a gesture that might be accidental or might be completely intentional.
"It's good to see you," he says quietly.
You pull your hand back. "Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't do that. Don't make this into something it's not."
"What am I making it into?"
"You know what."
He smiles. That smile. The one that used to make you feel like you were the only person who mattered and now just makes you feel like you're losing a game you didn't know you were playing. "Monday," he says again.
You leave before you can do something stupid like stay. The hallway is the same length it was before—forty-three steps from his door to the elevator. You count them again anyway. Count them and try not to think about the way his hand felt against yours, the way his eyes looked in the hotel lighting, the way he said it's good to see you like he meant it.
The elevator arrives. You step inside and watch the numbers descend. Four, three, two, one. The doors open to the lobby and you walk out past the bar, past the front desk, past all the well-dressed people living their well-dressed lives. The night air hits you when you step outside and it's cold, colder than it was before, or maybe that's just you.
Monday. Nine AM. Two weeks. You just agreed to spend two weeks training Lando Norris's new assistant, in the same building as him, probably seeing him multiple times a day, pretending that Qatar never happened and that the past eighteen months of pottery classes and counting ceiling tiles were a completely normal and healthy way to process getting fired by someone who said they loved you.
This is fine. You're fine. Everything is completely fine. You walk the twelve minutes home and try to convince yourself that you haven't just made a catastrophic mistake.
Monday arrives with the kind of crystalline Monaco morning that makes you hate how beautiful everything surrounding you is. The sky is aggressively blue. You stand outside the MTC building at 8:47 AM because you're not going to be late, not going to give Lando the satisfaction of waiting for you.
The severance money means you don't technically need this. Could've said no. Should've said no. But here you are anyway, in black trousers and a cream cashmere sweater, your hair pulled back, looking professional and composed and like someone who definitely didn't spend three hours last night googling "how to train someone when you're emotionally compromised."
The building looks the same. Glass and steel and McLaren orange accents, you've been here a thousand times. Walked these halls, sat in these conference rooms, fixed Lando's disasters in every possible corner of this building. You take the elevator to the third floor. Lando's offices are on the fourth, but you're meeting Emma in the conference room, neutral territory. The elevator doors open and she's already there.
Emma is standing outside Conference Room B, clutching a tablet to her chest like it's a life preserver. She's twenty-three, with dark hair in a neat ponytail and wide brown eyes that get wider when she sees you. "Oh my god," she says, and her voice is high and nervous and sweet. "You're here. You're actually here. I'm Emma. Obviously. You know that. Lando said you'd be here at nine but I got here at eight-thirty because I didn't want to be late and I've been standing here for—sorry, I'm talking too much. I do that when I'm nervous. I'm Emma."
"You said that already," you say, but you're smiling despite yourself because she's like a puppy, earnest and eager and probably thirty seconds away from peeing on the floor from excitement.
"Right. Yes. Sorry." She clutches the tablet tighter. "Thank you for doing this. Lando said you were the best and he wasn't exaggerating, I've read all your notes, like all of them, the system you set up is incredible and I've been trying to follow it but I keep messing things up and last week I accidentally booked him on a flight to Barcelona instead of Budapest and he didn't even yell, he just looked at me like I'd kicked a puppy and that was somehow worse—"
"Emma."
She stops mid-sentence. "Yeah?"
"Breathe." She takes a breath. Then another one. "Sorry. I'm nervous. You're kind of a legend around here."
"I'm really not."
"You are, though. Everyone talks about how you could predict what Lando needed before he even asked, how you saved the Singapore weekend when his passport got stolen, how you once fixed a PR disaster with seventeen minutes' notice—"
"That was fifteen minutes."
"See?" Emma's face lights up. "That makes it even more impressive."
You can't help it. You laugh. It's been eighteen months since you laughed in this building, maybe longer. "Come on. Let's get started."
Conference Room B hasn't changed. Same long table, same uncomfortable chairs, same view of the parking lot where you can see Lando's cars if you crane your neck. You don't crane your neck. You spend the first hour going through systems. Calendar management, how Lando color-codes everything but never looks at the color-coding so you have to verbally remind him anyway. The specific way he likes his schedule printed—landscape, not portrait, because he's a psychopath. His coffee order, which changes based on what country he's in but follows a pattern if you pay attention.
Emma takes notes on everything. Actual notes, handwritten in a neat script, asking questions that are surprisingly intelligent. "What about when he's being difficult?" she asks around 10:15. "Like when he just doesn't want to do something?"
"Give me an example."
"Last month he had a sponsor call with Tag Heuer and he just didn't show up. Turned his phone off, then I found him at the gym."
You nod. "That's a Marcus problem."
"Marcus?"
"The Tag Heuer exec. Lando hates him. Too corporate, talks in buzzwords, makes Lando feel like he's in a business school presentation." You pull up the calendar on your tablet. "Did you reschedule?"
"I tried. Marcus was pissed."
"Marcus is always pissed. Did Lando at least send him something? Gift basket, signed merch, something to smooth it over?"
Emma's face falls. "I... uhhhhhh, no?"
"Rule one," you say, and you sound exactly like you used to, competent and certain and completely in control. "When Lando fucks up with a sponsor, you fix it before it becomes a problem. Send Marcus a bottle of something expensive with a handwritten note from Lando. I'll show you where we keep the stationary. Lando won't remember doing it but that's fine. That's the point."
"That feels like lying."
"It's not lying. It's managing expectations. Lando's job is to drive fast and look good in photos. Your job is to make sure he can do both without accidentally destroying his entire career." You look at her. "Can you do that?"
She straightens up. "Yes."
"Good." You're explaining the intricacies of Lando's travel preferences—aisle seat but only on long-haul flights, hates flying commercial but won't admit it's because he's claustrophobic, needs noise-canceling headphones or he gets migraines—when the door opens.
You don't have to look up to know it's him. You can feel it, the way the air in the room shifts, the way Emma's posture goes rigid. "Morning," Lando says, and his voice is casual, easy, like this is completely normal. Like he didn't show up at your apartment four days ago asking you to do exactly this.
You look up. He's in McLaren team gear, black joggers and a papaya polo, his hair still damp from a shower. He looks good. He always looks good. You hate that you still notice. "We're in the middle of something," you say.
"I know. Just wanted to check in. See how it's going." He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, and his eyes are on you. Just on you. Not on Emma, not on the conference room, just you. "How's she doing?"
"She's sitting right here," Emma says, and there's a tiny bit of spine in it that makes you like her more.
"Right. Sorry." But he doesn't look at Emma. Still looking at you. "How's she doing?"
"Fine. We're going through travel protocols."
"Riveting." He pushes off the doorframe, walks into the room like he owns it. Which, technically, he does. He owns this whole building, or at least McLaren does and he's their golden boy so it's basically the same thing. He stops at the head of the table, one hand braced on the back of a chair. "Mind if I sit in?"
"Yes," you say, at the same time Emma says "No, of course not."
Lando smiles. That smile. "Majority rules." He sits down across from you. Emma looks between you like she's watching a tennis match and can't figure out who's winning.
"Continue," Lando says, gesturing at you like a professor encouraging a student. "Don't let me interrupt."
"You're already interrupting."
"Am I?" He leans back in his chair, arms behind his head. "I'm just sitting here. Very quietly. Being super helpful."
You want to throw your tablet at his head. "Emma, where were we?"
"Um." Emma's looking at her notes but you can see her hands are shaking slightly. "Travel preferences?"
"Right. So Lando needs—"
"I need a lot of things," Lando interrupts. "Very high maintenance. Must be exhausting to keep track of."
You ignore him. "Lando needs at least seven hours of sleep before a race. Which means you're coordinating with his trainer and his PR team to make sure he's not scheduled for anything after nine PM on Saturday nights."
"Unless it's important," Lando adds.
"Nothing is more important than you not crashing the car because you're tired."
"I would never crash because I'm tired. I'd crash because someone else did something stupid."
"Abu Dhabi 2023."
He sits up straighter. "That was different."
"You were exhausted. You'd done press until eleven the night before and you missed the apex on lap forty-three because you were too tired to focus."
"I missed the apex because Ocon was being a dick."
"Lando." You level him with a look. "Are you going to let me train Emma or are you going to argue with me about things that happened two years ago?" Something flickers across his face. Something that might be hurt or might be anger or might be something else entirely. "Fine. Continue."
You continue. Emma asks about race weekend protocols. You explain the specific way Lando likes his debriefs, bullet points, not paragraphs, because he won't read paragraphs. The way he gets quiet before qualifying, needs space, don't try to cheer him up or pump him up just let him be.
"He's a headphone person," you explain. "If he's wearing them, don't bother him unless the building is on fire."
"What if it's actually important?" Emma asks.
"Then text me first— sorry, text whoever his performance coach is and they'll handle it."
"You mean text you," Lando says quietly.
You don't look at him. "Text whoever is listed as his primary contact."
"That's you."
"I'm not his primary contact anymore."
"Yes, you are." He says it with complete certainty. "Never changed it. It's still you."
The room goes very quiet. Emma is looking at her tablet very intently, like she's trying to disappear into it. "We should take a break," you say, standing up. "Emma, fifteen minutes?"
"Yeah. Yes. Absolutely." She practically bolts from the room.
You start gathering your things. Lando stays seated. "You're still my primary contact," he says again.
"Change it."
"Why?"
"Because I don't work for you anymore."
"You're working for me right now."
"I'm consulting. It's temporary."
"Right." He stands up, walks around the table. He's too close now, close enough that you can smell his cologne and your head spins. "Two weeks."
"That's what we agreed."
"Then what?"
"Then I go back to my life and you figure out how to not destroy Emma's will to live."
"C'monnnn, I'm not that bad." You finally look at him. Really look at him. There's a small scar on his left eyebrow that wasn't there before—probably from a crash you didn't see, didn't hear about, weren't there for. He's broader in the shoulders. More defined. Like he's been training harder, pushing himself harder.
"You called her useless," you say quietly. "Emma. You told me she was useless."
"I said she wasn't you."
"Same thing."
"It's really not." He takes another step closer. "You were terrifying. Efficient and cold and you knew exactly what I needed before I needed it. Emma's trying but she's not—"
"She's twenty-three years old and you make her cry."
"I don't make her cry."
"You make her feel like she's failing even when she's doing everything right. That's worse than making her cry."
His jaw tightens. "That's not what I'm doing."
"Isn't it?" You cross your arms. "She accidentally booked you to Barcelona instead of Budapest and you looked at her like she'd killed your dog."
"It was a stupid mistake."
"It was an honest mistake. A mistake I made three times in my first six months working for you and you just laughed and fixed it."
"That was different."
"Why? Because you were fucking me?"
The words hang in the air between you. Lando's expression shutters closed, that thing he does when he doesn't want you to know what he's thinking. "That's not fair," he says finally.
"Nothing about this is fair." You grab your tablet. "I need air."
"Wait—" But you're already leaving, walking out of Conference Room B, past Emma who's hovering in the hallway pretending to look at her phone, toward the elevator. You hit the button. Wait. The doors open.
Lando catches them before they close.
"Move," you say.
"No."
"Lando, I swear to fucking god."
He steps into the elevator. The doors close behind him. It's just the two of you in this small space, and he's looking at you with an intensity that makes your stomach flip. "You're right," he says.
"About what?"
"About Emma. About me being too hard on her." The elevator starts moving down. "I don't mean to. I just—"
"You're comparing her to me."
"Yeah."
"Then stop."
"I can't." His voice is quiet now, raw. "You set an impossible standard and now everyone else just feels wrong."
"That's not my problem."
"Isn't it?" He moves closer. "You're here, aren't you? Training her. Which means some part of you still cares."
"I care about her. Not about you."
"Liar." The elevator dings. Ground floor. The doors open to the lobby and you walk out without looking back. You can feel him following you, his presence like a heat at your back. Outside, the Monaco sun is aggressive and bright. You walk toward the parking lot, no destination in mind, just moving because if you stop moving you might do something stupid like turn around.
"Where are you going?" Lando calls after you.
"Away from you."
"Your car's the other direction." You stop and turn around. He's standing there in the middle of the parking lot, hands in his pockets, looking at you like this is all some game and he's already won.
"What do you want from me?" you ask.
"I want," he stops. Runs a hand through his hair. "I don't know."
"Yes, you do."
"Fine. I want you to stop looking at me like I'm the villain in your story."
"Then stop acting like one."
"I fired you because," He stops again, and this time he looks genuinely frustrated, like the words won't come. "It was getting complicated."
"You said you loved me and then you fired me. That's not complicated. That's just fucking cruel, Lando."
"It wasn't— I wasn't trying to be cruel."
"Then what were you trying to be?" He doesn't answer. Just stands there in the parking lot while people walk past, employees and engineers and team members who definitely recognize both of you and are definitely going to talk about this later.
"Two weeks," you say finally. "I'm going to train Emma for two weeks and then I'm done. I don't want to have this conversation again. I don't want to analyze what happened in Qatar. I don't want closure or explanations or whatever it is you think you need to give me."
"What if I want those things?"
"Then you should've thought about that eighteen months ago." You walk back to the building, back to Conference Room B where Emma is probably still trying to make herself invisible. Lando doesn't follow you this time.
When you get back upstairs, Emma looks up nervously. "Everything okay?"
"Fine," you lie. "Let's talk about how to handle media obligations." You make it through the rest of the morning. Make it through lunch—salads in the cafeteria, Emma chattering nervously about her girlfriend and her apartment in Nice and how she got this job. Make it through the afternoon session on crisis management.
At 4:47 PM, your phone buzzes.
You stare at the messages. Emma is explaining something about how she organized his sponsor contacts but you're not listening anymore. "I need to take care of something," you tell her. "Can you review the crisis management protocols we just covered? I'll quiz you when I get back."
"Yeah, of course." She's already pulling up the documents, eager and focused.
You take the elevator to the fourth floor. Lando's office is at the end of the hall, corner office with windows overlooking the harbor. The door is half-open. You knock anyway.
"Come in," he says. His office is exactly how you remember it. Sleek brown desk, nice chair, shelves lined with trophies and helmets and racing memorabilia. There's a new addition—a photo from Abu Dhabi, him holding the championship trophy, surrounded by his team. You're not in it. Obviously.
Lando is standing by the window, back to you, still in his team gear. "Close the door," he says without turning around.
You close the door. Stay by it. Keep your hand on the handle. "What."
"I owe you an explanation." He turns around finally. His face is serious, none of that cocky confidence from this morning. "About Qatar."
"I don't want a fucking explanation."
"I know you don't want to hear it. I'm telling you anyway." He leans back against the window ledge. "I fired you because I was in love with you and I didn't know what the fuck to do about it."
You stare at him. At Lando Norris standing in his corner office with the nice windows and a championship trophy on his shelf, telling you he fired you because he loved you like that makes any fucking sense at all.
"No," you say.
"No?"
"No. You don't get to do this." You take a step forward, then another, until you're in the middle of his office and your hands are clenched into fists at your sides. "You don't get to rewrite this to make yourself feel better."
"I'm not rewriting anything. I'm telling you what happened."
"What happened is you fucked me and then you panicked and then you got rid of me. Don't dress it up as some grand romantic gesture."
"It wasn't—" He pushes off from the window, agitated now. "I wasn't trying to get rid of you. I was trying to protect you."
"From what?"
"From me. From this." He gestures around the office, at the trophies, at everything. "From being the person everyone whispers about. 'Oh, she's only here because she's sleeping with Lando Norris.' From having everything you accomplished reduced to who you were fucking."
You laugh. It comes out sharp and bitter. "How noble of you. Firing me to protect my reputation."
"It wasn't just about reputation."
"Then what was it about, Lando? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you got scared. You said something you didn't mean in the heat of the moment and then you couldn't take it back so you just removed the problem entirely."
"I meant it." He takes a step closer. "I meant every fucking word."
"Then why—"
"Because I couldn't keep you and race at the same time!" His voice rises, echoing off the glass walls. "Because every time I got in the car I was thinking about you instead of the track. Because in Suzuka I nearly crashed in turn seven because I was wondering if you were watching. Because I was so gone for you that it was making me dangerous."
You open your mouth. Close it and try to find words that make sense. "You don't get to blame me for your driving," you say finally.
"I'm not blaming you. I'm explaining."
"You're making excuses."
"Jesus Christ." He runs both hands through his hair, messing it up completely. "Why are you being so difficult about this?"
"Difficult?" Your voice is rising now too. "You fired me, Lando. You looked me in the eye and told me I was done and then you disappeared from my life for months. You moved on for fucks sake! You found someone else. You won a fucking championship. And now you want me to what? Thank you for protecting me?"
"No, I want you to understand!"
"I understand perfectly. You wanted me gone so you could focus on your career. Mission accomplished. You got everything you wanted. Congratu-fucking-lations!"
"Everything except you."
The words hit you like a physical blow and you take a step back. Lando closes the distance. He's too close now, close enough that you can see the flecks of gold in his blue-green eyes, close enough that you're breathing the same air.
"You think I moved on?" His voice is lower now, dangerous. "You think I just forgot about you?"
"You're with Magui—"
"Magui is—" He stops. His jaw works. "Magui is uncomplicated. Easy. She doesn't make me feel like I'm losing my fucking mind."
"How nice for you both."
"You're not listening to what I'm saying."
"I'm listening. I just don't believe you."
"Why not?"
"Because if you actually loved me, you would've fought for it. You would've figured it out. You wouldn't have just thrown me away like I was—like I was disposable."
"You were never disposable." His hands come up like he's going to touch you, then drop. "You were the opposite. You were so important it fucking terrified me."
"Past tense."
"What?"
"Were. You keep saying were." You're shaking now, with anger or something else you refuse to name. "Past tense, Lando. Because whatever you felt, it's over now. You made sure of that."
"Is it?" He moves even closer, so close now that his chest is almost touching yours. "Because you came to my hotel room. You agreed to train Emma. You're standing in my office right now when you could've said no to all of it."
"I came because you manipulated me—"
"I asked. You chose."
"Fuck you."
"Yeah?" His voice drops even lower, rough and intimate and infuriating. "Is that what you want?"
Your breath catches. "Don't."
"Don't what? Don't point out that you're still here? That you haven't left even though you could? That you're looking at me right now like you want to hit me or kiss me and you can't decide which?"
"I want to hit you."
"Liar." He reaches up slowly, giving you time to move away. You don't. His fingers brush your jaw, the same way they did in that hotel room in Qatar, and your traitorous body remembers. Remembers everything. "You're still the worst liar I've ever met."
"And you're still an asshole."
"Yeah." His thumb traces along your bottom lip. "But you liked that about me."
"Past tense."
"Sure." He's smiling now, that devastating smile that means he thinks he's winning. "Keep telling yourself that."
You should leave. Should push him away, walk out of this office, text Emma that she's on her own, block Lando's number, and get on the first flight to literally anywhere else. You don't leave. "You're with someone else," you say, but your voice comes out breathy, unconvincing.
"Am I?"
"Magui—"
"Isn't here." His other hand comes up to cup your face, tilting it up toward him. "Hasn't been here. Not in any way that matters."
"That's not—you can't just—"
"I know." His forehead drops to yours. "I know it's fucked up. I know I have no right to any of this. I know I'm the villain in your story and I probably deserve it. But I can't," His voice cracks slightly. "I can't keep pretending I don't still feel it. Can't keep watching you in that conference room teaching Emma things you used to do for me and act like it doesn't make me want to flip the fucking table."
"Lando."
"Tell me you don't feel it too." His eyes search yours. "Tell me Qatar meant nothing. Tell me you don't think about it. Tell me you're over it and I'll back off. I'll let you train Emma and I'll stay away and I'll never bring this up again."
It would be so easy to lie. To say the words he's asking for and walk out and go back to your empty apartment and your pottery classes and your carefully constructed life without him. "I can't," you whisper.
"Can't what?"
"Can't tell you that."
His grip on your face tightens. "Why not?"
"Because it's not true." The admission feels like it's being torn out of you. "I think about it every day. I think about you every day. And I hate it. I hate that you still have this much power over me. I hate that you fired me and moved on and I'm still—I'm still stuck in that hotel room in Qatar waiting for you to explain why you ruined everything."
"I'm explaining now."
"It's too late."
"Is it?" He's so close now his lips are almost touching yours. "Tell me it's too late. Mean it. Make me believe it."
"Lando, don't."
"Don't what? Don't tell you I haven't stopped thinking about you? Don't admit that Magui was supposed to help me move on and it didn't work? Don't say that I've been keeping track of every pottery class and yoga session and book club meeting because I couldn't stop myself?"
"That's creepy."
"I know." He laughs, but it sounds broken. "I know it is. I know I'm fucked up about this. About you. But I can't."
You kiss him before you can talk yourself out of it. It's not soft. It's not sweet. It's eighteen months of anger and hurt and want colliding all at once. Your hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer, and he makes a sound low in his throat that you remember, that you've heard in dreams and hated yourself for missing. His hands slide from your face to your hair, tilting your head to deepen the kiss, and it's exactly like Qatar and nothing like Qatar at all. In Qatar, it was desperate and finite, both of you knowing it was ending even as it was happening. This feels different. More dangerous.
This feels like a beginning. He walks you backward until your back hits his desk, and his hands are on your waist, lifting you onto it like you weigh nothing. Your legs wrap around him automatically, muscle memory from all those times before, and he's between your thighs and you're both breathing hard. "Fuck," he mutters against your mouth. "Fuck, I missed this."
"Shut up." You pull him back in, kissing him harder, meaner, putting all your anger into it. He takes it, gives it back, his teeth catching your bottom lip hard enough to sting.
His hands slide under your sweater, palms hot against your ribs, and you arch into the touch. You've been so cold for eighteen months and now you're burning up. "We can't," you gasp when he moves to your neck, biting down on that spot below your ear that makes you see stars. "Lando, we can't."
"Why not?" His voice is muffled against your skin, and his hands are still moving, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts through your bra.
"Because—because Emma is downstairs, because this is your office, because you have a girlfriend."
"I'll break up with her." He says it so casually, like it's already decided. "I'll call her right now."
"Don't be stupid."
"I'm not being stupid. I'm being honest." He pulls back to look at you, and his eyes are dark, pupils blown wide. "I don't want her. I want you. I've always wanted you."
"You fired me."
"Worst decision I've ever made." His hands frame your face again, forcing you to look at him. "And I've made a lot of bad decisions, so that's saying something."
You want to laugh. Want to cry. Want to pull him back in and forget everything that happened between Qatar and now. "This is insane," you say.
"Probably."
"We'll ruin everything. Again."
"Maybe." His thumb brushes across your cheekbone. "Or maybe we'll figure it out this time."
"You don't know that."
"No." He leans in, presses a soft kiss to your forehead, then your nose, then the corner of your mouth. "But I'm willing to risk it if you are."
Your phone buzzes in your pocket. You both freeze. "Don't," Lando says.
"It might be Emma—"
"It can wait." But the spell is broken. Reality is seeping back in through the cracks—the fact that you're sitting on his desk with your sweater rucked up and your lipstick definitely smeared. The fact that Emma is downstairs waiting for you. The fact that Magui exists, whether Lando wants to acknowledge it or not. You slide off the desk, putting distance between you. Your hands are shaking as you pull your sweater back down, try to smooth your hair.
"This was a mistake," you say.
"Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"Pretend it didn't mean anything. You're shit at it." He's watching you with an intensity that makes your skin prickle. "Always have been."
"It meant something in Qatar too. Look how that turned out."
"This is different."
"Is it?" You find your tablet where you dropped it on the floor, clutch it to your chest like Emma did this morning. "Or are you going to fire me again in two weeks when you remember why this is a bad idea?"
"That's not going to happen."
"You don't know that."
"I do, actually." He takes a step toward you. You take a step back. His jaw tightens. "Don't run."
"I'm not running. I'm leaving. There's a difference."
"Is there?" You open the door. Emma is definitely going to know something happened—your face is probably flushed, your lips probably swollen. But you can't stay here. Can't keep looking at him without wanting to touch him again. "Two weeks," you say without turning around. "I'm training Emma for two weeks. That's all this is."
"If that's what you need to tell yourself."
You walk out. Down the hallway, into the elevator, down to the third floor. Emma looks up when you walk in, takes one look at your face, and wisely says nothing. "Sorry," you manage. "That took longer than expected."
"It's fine." She's studying you though, those wide brown eyes taking in everything. "Everything okay?"
"Fine. Let's go over crisis management one more time." You make it through the rest of the day. Make it through Emma's questions and the review session and the walk to your car. Make it all the way home before you finally let yourself fall apart. Your apartment is exactly as empty as you left it. Clean and sad and full of the ghost of pottery classes and yoga sessions you quit.
Your phone buzzes and you brace yourself.
You throw your phone onto the couch. Pour yourself a glass of wine you don't drink. Stand in your living room and touch your lips where they're still tender from his teeth. This is going to end badly. You can see the car crash coming from a mile away and you're walking toward it anyway. Monday down. Thirteen days to go, and you are so undeniably fucked.
Tuesday passes in a blur of Emma and schedules and carefully avoiding the fourth floor. You arrive at 8:45 AM, earlier than necessary, because if you're early then you're in control. Emma is already there—of course she is, eager puppy that she is—with coffee for both of you and questions written neatly in her notebook.
"I was thinking about what you said yesterday," she starts, and you're grateful she doesn't mention the fact that you came back from Lando's office looking like you'd been thoroughly kissed. "About anticipating his needs before he asks?"
"Yeah?"
"How do you do that? Like, how do you know what he's going to want before he knows?" You think about all the times you just knew. Knew he needed silence before quali. Knew he needed distraction after a bad race. Knew he was spiraling before he even realized it himself. "You pay attention," you say finally. "To patterns. To mood shifts. To the things he doesn't say."
"That sounds exhausting."
"It is."
You spend the morning going through his sponsorship portfolio. Emma takes notes on everything—which sponsors require more hand-holding, which ones Lando actually likes, which ones are just obligatory. "Tag Heuer," she says, reading from her tablet. "You mentioned Marcus yesterday. What's the deal there?"
"Marcus is—" You stop, because Lando's walking past the conference room. You can see him through the glass wall, talking to someone from engineering. He doesn't look at you. Doesn't even glance in your direction.
Good. That's good. "Marcus is old-school corporate," you continue, dragging your attention back to Emma. "Thinks racing should be serious and professional. Doesn't understand that half of Lando's appeal is that he's not those things."
"So Lando hates him."
"Lando tolerates him because Tag Heuer pays extremely well."
Emma makes a note. "Got it. Tolerate with expensive gifts."
"Exactly."
Lando walks past again twenty minutes later. Still doesn't look. Wednesday is worse because Lando isn't there at all. "He had to fly to London," Emma explains when you arrive at 9 AM to an empty building. "McLaren board meeting. Won't be back until late."
"Oh." You hate the disappointment that floods through you. Hate that some part of you was expecting him to show up, to push, to do something. "Okay. Good. We can focus without distractions."
Emma gives you a look that suggests she's not as oblivious as you thought. You spend Wednesday going through worst-case scenarios. PR disasters, contract disputes, the time Lando accidentally liked a tweet criticizing the team principal and you had to do damage control for six hours straight.
"The key," you tell Emma, "is to fix it before it becomes a story. Lando's going to fuck up. That's not the question. The question is whether you can contain it before it explodes."
"That's kind of dark."
"Welcome to Formula 1." Your phone stays silent all day. No texts from Lando. No calls. Nothing. Which is fine. Which is what you wanted. You definitely don't check it seventeen times. Wednesday evening you're back in your apartment, staring at your laptop without seeing it, when Charlotte, your close friend finally calls.
"You're avoiding me," she says without preamble.
"I'm not avoiding you. I'm busy."
"Busy doing what? I thought you were living your best unemployed life."
"I'm consulting."
There's a pause. "Consulting for who?"
"It's temporary."
"Babe. Consulting for who?"
You close your eyes. "Lando."
Charlotte makes a noise that's somewhere between a laugh and a groan. "You're kidding."
"I'm training his new assistant. Two weeks. That's it."
"Two weeks of seeing your ex-boss who you were definitely in love with and who fired you after fucking you? That Lando?"
"I wasn't in love with him."
"You counted ceiling tiles for four months after he fired you."
"That's not—that's different."
"Babe." Charlotte's voice goes soft. "What are you doing?"
"I'm helping someone who needs help. Emma's sweet and she's trying and Lando's going to destroy her confidence if someone doesn't teach her how to handle him."
"Very altruistic."
"It is altruistic."
"So nothing's happened?" You think about Monday. About his office and his hands and the way he kissed you like he was drowning.
"Nothing's happened," you lie.
"You're such a bad liar." But Charlotte doesn't push. "Just be careful, okay? I don't want to watch you fall apart again."
"I'm not going to fall apart."
"Promise me."
"I promise." You hang up and immediately check your phone. Still nothing from Lando, which is good. Which is what you need. Right? Right? You make it to 11 PM before you break and text him.
You stare at that last message for longer than you should. Beautiful. He used to call you that, in hotel rooms and early mornings and moments when he thought you weren't paying attention. You plug your phone in across the room so you won't be tempted to respond. It doesn't help. You lie awake until 2 AM thinking about his hands and his mouth and the way he said I'll break up with her like it was simple.
Thursday morning Emma is vibrating with excitement when you arrive. "Okay so I have a question about the simulator sessions," she says before you've even sat down. "How often does he do them and do I need to coordinate with the engineers or does that happen automatically and—"
"Emma. Breathe."
"Right. Sorry. I'm just," She pauses. "He texted me last night."
Your stomach drops. "Lando texted you?"
"Yeah. Just to say I'm doing a good job and he appreciates me being patient while I learn." She's beaming. "That was nice, right? That he took the time to do that?"
"Very nice." Your voice sounds strange even to your own ears.
"He's not as scary as I thought he'd be. I mean, he's still intense, but you can tell he cares about getting things right."
You think about Monday, about the way he looked at you in his office, the way his voice cracked when he said I can't keep pretending. "Yeah," you manage. "He cares about getting things right."
You're midway through explaining the intricacies of coordinating with his performance coach when the door opens. Lando walks in with two coffees and that fucking smile. "Morning," he says, like this is casual, like he didn't disappear for two days. He sets one coffee in front of Emma. "Vanilla latte, right?"
Emma lights up. "You remembered!"
"Course." Then he turns to you and sets the second coffee down. "Oat milk cappuccino. Extra shot."
You stare at the cup. It's from the specific café three blocks away that you used to make him stop at every morning when you worked for him. The one with the good oat milk, not the shit oat milk. "I didn't ask for this," you say.
"I know." He sits down at the table, directly across from you. "But it's 9:30 AM and you've been here since 8:45 and you haven't had your second coffee yet. You get mean after 9:15 if you don't have caffeine."
"I'm not mean," you say.
"You're terrifying." But he says it like it's a compliment. "So. What are we covering today?"
"We?"
"I'm sitting in again. Making sure Emma's getting the full picture." He leans back in his chair, arms crossed. He's in team gear again—black joggers, papaya polo. His hair is messy like he didn't bother styling it. "That okay?"
"Do I have a choice?"
"Not really."
You want to throw the coffee at him. You take a sip instead. It's perfect. Exactly how you like it. The bastard remembers everything. "Fine. We're covering travel coordination. Emma, pull up Lando's schedule for Japan."
The next hour is torture. Lando sits there asking questions, making comments, watching you explain things to Emma with an intensity that makes your skin prickle. Every time you look at him he's already looking at you. "So when we're coordinating flights," you say, pulling up a calendar, "you need to account for jet lag. Lando needs at least two days in-country before a race weekend if it's long-haul."
"What if there's not two days?" Emma asks.
"Then you make it work. But he'll be pissy about it."
"I don't get pissy," Lando interjects.
You level him with a look. "Singapore 2024. You had one day in-country and you snapped at everyone for three days straight."
"That was different."
"How?"
"I had food poisoning."
"You were jet-lagged."
"I was dyyyyying."
"You had a very mild stomachache." Emma is trying very hard not to laugh. Lando is glaring at you, but there's something else in his expression. Something that looks almost like fondness.
"Anyway," you continue, turning back to Emma. "Two days minimum. Schedule accordingly."
At 11 AM, Lando's phone rings. He glances at the screen and his expression shutters. You make it through another twenty minutes before Lando comes back. His expression is carefully neutral, but you can see the tension in his jaw.
"All good?" Emma asks brightly.
"Fine." He sits back down. "Where were we?"
"Simulator sessions," you say. "Emma needs to know how to coordinate."
"Actually," Lando interrupts, "I need to talk to you about something. Work thing. Won't take long."
Emma looks between you. "I can step out—"
"No need." Lando is already standing. "Conference room down the hall. Five minutes."
He walks out. You have no choice but to follow. The conference room is smaller than the one you've been using, no windows, just a table and six chairs and fluorescent lighting that makes everything look slightly sickly. Lando closes the door behind you.
"What's the work thing?" you ask.
"There is no work thing."
"Then why—"
"I needed to see you alone." He's standing too close again, crowding into your space. "Needed to know if Monday was real or if I imagined the whole thing."
"Lando—"
"Did you think about it?" His voice is low, urgent. "The past two days. Did you think about it?"
"That's not, we can't do this here."
"I texted Emma. Told her she's doing a good job. Did she tell you?"
"Yes."
"I did it so you wouldn't think I was only here for you. So you wouldn't accuse me of using this as an excuse." He takes another step closer. "But I am here for you. I'm always here for you."
"You were in London."
"McLaren board meeting. Had to present the championship review. Couldn't get out of it." His hand comes up to your face but doesn't quite touch. "Thought about you the entire time. Especially during the part where they asked about my personal life."
Your breath catches. "What did you say?"
"Said it was complicated." His thumb brushes your cheekbone, so light you might be imagining it. "Said I was working on fixing something I broke."
"Did they ask about Magui?"
Something flickers across his face. "Yeah."
"And?"
"And I told them we were taking a break."
The world tilts. "You what?"
"Called her last night. Told her I needed space to figure some things out." His eyes search yours. "She was surprisingly understanding about it."
"Lando, you can't just do this."
"Can't what? Can't be honest? Can't admit that I've been in a relationship with someone I don't love because I was too fucked up over you to be alone?"
"That's not fair to her."
"I know. Which is why I ended it." His hand is fully cupping your face now. "I'm not doing this halfway. I'm not sneaking around or lying. If we're doing this, I'm all in."
"We're not doing anything—"
"Liar." He's so close now you can count his eyelashes. "You're still the worst liar I've ever met."
"You're being crazy."
"Probably." His lips brush against yours, barely a kiss, more a promise. "But I'm done pretending I don't want this. Want you."
You should push him away. Should remind him that Emma is down the hall, that this is insane, that he broke your heart eighteen months ago and you're not giving him the chance to do it again. You kiss him instead. It's different from Monday. Slower, deeper, less angry and more inevitable. Like you're both finally admitting something you've been avoiding. His hands slide into your hair and you press closer, your back hitting the wall, and he makes that sound again, the one that's half-groan and half-surrender.
"We have to stop," you gasp against his mouth.
"Why?"
"Because Emma is waiting. Because we're in an office building. Because—"
"Because you're scared."
"I'm not scared."
"You're terrified." His forehead rests against yours. "But that's okay. So am I."
"Then why are you pushing this?"
"Because eighteen months without you was worse than being scared." His eyes meet yours. "Because I'd rather risk everything than spend another year and a half counting how long it's been since I touched you." You're saved from responding by your phone buzzing in your pocket. You pull it out, grateful for the interruption.
"Shit." You step back, putting distance between you. "We need to go back."
"In a second." He catches your hand. "Tonight. Come over."
"Lando."
"Not to my place. Neutral ground. There's that restaurant you like on Avenue Princess Grace. The one with the good risotto."
"I know the one."
"Seven PM. Just dinner. Just talking."
"And if I say no?"
"Then I'll respect it." His thumb traces circles on your palm. "But you won't say no."
"You're very sure of yourself."
"I'm sure of you." He lifts your hand to his lips, presses a kiss to your knuckles. "Seven PM."
He leaves before you can argue. You stand there in the conference room, heart racing, lips tingling, completely and utterly fucked. When you get back to the main conference room, Emma takes one look at your face and mercifully says nothing. You make it through the rest of the day. Make it through explaining simulator protocols and race weekend logistics and all the things Emma needs to know.
Lando doesn't come back. At 6 PM, Emma starts packing up. "Same time tomorrow?"
"Yeah. Tomorrow's our last day of basics, then we'll start shadowing some actual events."
"Sounds good." She hesitates. "Can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
"You and Lando. You have history, right?"
You should lie. Should definitely keep it professional. "Yeah," you say instead. "We have history."
"I figured." Emma adjusts her bag. "For what it's worth, I think he's different around you. Lighter. Like he can actually breathe."
She leaves before you can respond. You sit in the empty conference room staring at your phone. At the time. 6:03 PM. You could go home. Pour wine. Pretend tonight isn't happening. Instead, at 6:47 PM, you're standing outside La Maison du Caviar in a black dress you haven't worn in two years, watching Lando get out of his car.
He's in dark jeans and a white button-down, no tie, sleeves rolled up. He looks unfairly good. "You came," he says, and he sounds surprised.
"Don't gloat."
"Wouldn't dream of it." He offers his arm. "Shall we?" Day three. Tension officially at breaking point. This is going to end in flames.
"Wine?" Lando asks once you're seated.
"I can order my own wine."
"I know you can. I'm asking if you want wine."
You do. You desperately do. "Red."
He orders a bottle of something French and expensive without looking at the menu. The sommelier practically bows before walking away. "So," Lando says, leaning back in his chair. "How am I doing?"
"At what?"
"At this. Dinner. Normal human interaction."
"It's been five minutes."
"And?"
"And you're doing fine. Very restrained."
He smiles. That dangerous smile that means trouble. "Just wait."
The wine arrives. It's good. Too good. The kind of good that makes you forget you're supposed to be maintaining boundaries. "Emma's doing well," you say, because work is safe. Work is neutral territory.
"She is. Thanks to you."
"She's a fast learner. She actually listens."
"Unlike me?"
"You listen. You just choose to ignore half of what people tell you."
"Not true. I listened when you told me I needed to be nicer to Emma."
"You texted her once."
"And I brought her coffee this morning. And I'm letting her leave at reasonable hours instead of texting her at midnight about random shit." He takes a sip of wine. "See? Growth."
"Impressive. Want a gold star?"
"I want you to admit I'm trying."
"You're trying," you concede. "Doesn't mean it's working."
"Ouch." The waiter comes to take your order. You get the risotto because Lando was right, it is good here. He gets something with fish that you know he'll eat half of before getting distracted. Once the waiter leaves, Lando leans forward. "So. Eighteen months."
"We're not doing this."
"Doing what?"
"The post-mortem. The 'where did we go wrong' conversation."
"Why not?"
"Because I already know where we went wrong. You fired me."
"Before that. You're skipping the part where we were in love."
Your grip tightens on your wine glass. "We weren't in love."
"I was."
"Don't."
"Don't what? Don't tell you the truth?" He stops, frustrated. "Why are you being so difficult about this?"
"Difficult?" Your voice rises slightly. An older couple two tables over glances your way. You lower it. "You think I'm being difficult?"
"I think you're refusing to have an actual conversation because you're scared of what might happen if you do."
"I'm not scared of anything."
"Bullshit. You're terrified. You've been terrified since Monday when I kissed you and you kissed me back and realized that maybe you're not as over this as you want to be."
"You're so fucking arrogant."
"And you're deflecting."
"I'm being realistic. You broke my heart, Lando. You don't get to just decide we're doing this again because you're bored of your girlfriend."
His jaw tightens. "That's not what this is."
"Then what is it?"
"It's me finally having the balls to fix the worst mistake I ever made."
"By taking me to dinner? By kissing me in conference rooms? That's your plan?"
"My plan is to show you that I'm serious. That this isn't just—" He gestures vaguely. "—nostalgia or whatever you think it is."
"It's been two days."
"It's been eighteen months. Two days is just how long it took me to get you in the same room as me." He refills your wine glass even though you haven't asked. "And before you say it—yes, I know I'm the one who caused those eighteen months. I know I fucked up. I know I hurt you. But I'm here now and I'm trying and you won't even give me a chance to explain. I've had eighteen months to figure out exactly how miserable I am without you." His voice drops. "Because I've tried to move on and I can't. Because every time I get in that fucking car I still think about you in Qatar watching me in FP2 and smiling like you were proud of me."
Your chest aches. "Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't say things like that."
"Why not? It's true."
"Because it's not fair." You set your wine glass down too hard. "You don't get to fire me and disappear and show up eighteen months later with pretty words and expect me to just—"
"Just what?"
"Just forget. Just forgive. Just let you back in like you didn't completely destroy me."
The silence that follows is sharp enough to cut. "I know," Lando says finally, quietly. "I know I destroyed you. You think I don't know that? You think I didn't see what I did to you?"
"Clearly not, since you still did it."
"I did it because I was fucking terrified. Because I'd never felt that way about anyone and it was making me insane. Because every time I looked at you I wanted things I didn't know how to want." His hands are clenched on the table. "And I know that's not an excuse. I know it doesn't make it better. But I'm trying to explain—"
"I don't want an explanation. I want you to leave me alone."
"Liar."
"Stop calling me that."
"Then stop lying." He leans forward. "You want me to leave you alone? Fine. Tell me Monday meant nothing. Tell me you felt nothing when I kissed you. Tell me you're not sitting here right now wishing we were anywhere else so you could do it again."
"You're delusional."
"Am I? Because your pupils are dilated and your breathing is uneven and you've been staring at my mouth for the past thirty seconds." Fuck. He's right. You have been.
"That's—I'm not—"
"You're a terrible liar," he says again, and there's something almost gentle in it now. "Always have been. It's one of my favorite things about you."
"I need to use the bathroom." You stand up before he can respond. Navigate through the restaurant on unsteady legs—from the wine or from him, you're not sure. The bathroom is in the back, single-stall, the kind with a heavy wooden door and a lock that actually works.
You close yourself inside and immediately brace your hands on the sink. Your reflection looks back at you—flushed cheeks, bright eyes, lips slightly parted. You look like someone who's losing an argument. Worse, you look like someone who wants to lose. Deep breath. You can do this. You can go back out there, finish dinner like a professional, go home, and forget this ever—
The door opens and Lando steps inside and locks it behind him. "What are you doing?" Your voice comes out breathy, unconvincing.
"What do you think I'm doing?" He's crossing the space between you in two strides, and then his hands are on your waist and he's lifting you onto the sink.
"Someone could—"
"Let them." His mouth finds your neck, that spot below your ear that makes you gasp. "I'm done pretending. Done watching you try to convince yourself you don't want this."
"Lando."
"Tell me to stop." His hands slide up your thighs, pushing your dress higher. "Tell me you don't want this and I'll walk out right now. I'll finish dinner, take you home, never bring it up again."
You should. You should absolutely tell him to stop. "I hate you," you say instead.
"I know." His mouth moves to yours, kissing you hard enough to bruise. "Hate me louder."
Your hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer even as you're trying to push him away. It's all contradiction—your mouth saying one thing while your body says another, and he can read every single signal.
"This is insane," you gasp when he bites down on your lower lip.
"Probably." His hands are everywhere now—in your hair, on your waist, sliding up your ribs. "Don't care."
"We're in a restaurant bathroom."
"I know." He pulls back just enough to look at you, and his eyes are dark, dangerous. "You want me to stop?"
"Yes."
"Liar." His hand slides higher, fingers tracing the edge of your underwear. "Try again."
"I—fuck—" Your head drops back against the mirror as his fingers slip beneath the fabric, teasing. "This doesn't change anything."
"Doesn't it?" He's watching your face, cataloging every reaction. "Because you're shaking. And your breathing's gone all uneven. And you're so wet I can feel it through your underwear."
"That's not—" You gasp as he presses exactly where you need him. "—not fair."
"Nothing about this is fair." His mouth is on your neck again, biting, sucking, definitely leaving marks. "Been thinking about this for eighteen months. Eighteen months of wondering if you tasted the same, if you'd make those same sounds, if you'd still fall apart the same way."
His fingers slide inside you and you bite your lip to keep from making noise. "Don't." He uses his free hand to pull your lip from between your teeth. "Want to hear you. Want everyone in this fucking restaurant to know what I'm doing to you."
"You're insane."
"And you love it." He adds another finger, curling them just right, and your hips buck against his hand. "There she is. There's my girl."
"Not your girl."
"No?" He slows his movements, teasing. "Then whose girl are you?"
"I'm not—I don't belong to—fuck, don't stop—"
"Say it." His thumb finds your clit and you actually whimper. "Say you're mine."
"Go to hell."
He laughs, and it's dark and possessive and makes you clench around his fingers. "We're already there, beautiful. Might as well enjoy it." He works you with devastating precision—eighteen months and he still remembers exactly what you need. The pressure, the angle, the rhythm that makes your thighs shake. You're gripping his shoulders, nails digging in through his shirt, and he's muttering against your neck in a voice gone rough and desperate.
"So fucking perfect. Missed this. Missed you. Missed making you fall apart on my fingers like you're mine, like you've always been mine—"
"Lando—" You're close, embarrassingly close, everything building sharp and inevitable.
"I know. I can feel it. Can feel you getting tighter." His mouth finds yours, kissing you through it. "Come on, beautiful. Show me. Show me you still want this as much as I do."
You come with his name on your lips and your hands fisted in his hair, and he works you through it, drawing it out until you're shaking and oversensitive and pushing his hand away. "Fuck," you breathe.
"Yeah." He's breathing hard too, forehead pressed against yours, and you can feel how hard he is against your thigh. "So that happened."
Reality comes crashing back. You're in a restaurant bathroom with your dress rucked up and Lando's fingers still inside you and at least twenty people on the other side of the door who definitely heard something. "Oh my god." You push at his chest. "Oh my god, we just—in a public bathroom—"
"Technically a private bathroom." But he's pulling back, giving you space. "No one's going to say anything."
"Everyone's going to say something." You slide off the sink on shaky legs, trying to pull your dress down with trembling hands. "They're going to see us walk out and they're going to know—"
"So what if they know?" He's watching you in the mirror, his reflection overlapping with yours. "I told you. I'm done pretending."
"That's easy for you to say. You're Lando Norris. You can do whatever you want."
"And what are you?"
"I'm the girl who got fired for sleeping with her boss and now everyone's going to think I'm pathetic for coming back."
"No." He steps behind you, hands on your hips, meeting your eyes in the mirror. "You're the girl I've been in love with for two years who I was too much of a coward to keep. And if anyone says anything about you being pathetic, I'll personally destroy them."
You want to argue. Want to list all the reasons this is a terrible idea. Want to protect yourself before he has the chance to hurt you again. Instead you turn around and kiss him. Slower this time, softer, and when you pull back his eyes are closed like he's savoring it.
"This doesn't mean I forgive you," you whisper.
"I know."
"And it doesn't mean we're back together."
"Okay."
"And I still think you're an asshole."
"Fair." He opens his eyes. "But you're here. You came to dinner. You let me—" He gestures vaguely at the sink. "—do that. So maybe we're not as hopeless as you think."
"We're absolutely hopeless."
"Probably." He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. "But I'm willing to risk it if you are."
You should say no. Should walk out, go home, block his number, and never look back.
"One chance," you hear yourself say. "You get one chance, Lando. You fuck this up, I'm gone. For real this time."
"I won't fuck it up."
"You don't know that."
"Yes, I do." He kisses you again, quick and sure. "Because I'm not losing you twice."
You fix your makeup as best you can. Lando runs his fingers through his hair, trying to make it look less like you've had your hands in it. You both look thoroughly fucked and there's nothing to be done about it.
"Ready?" he asks.
"No."
"Me neither." He unlocks the door. "Let's go anyway."
The meal continues in a strange sort of limbo. Lando orders dessert—some chocolate thing that's probably obscenely expensive—and insists you try it even though you say you're not hungry. He feeds you a bite from his fork and you let him, and somewhere in the back of your mind you're aware that this is a turning point, that you're crossing a line you swore you wouldn't cross.
"Good?" he asks.
"It's fine."
"Just fine?" He takes another bite, considering. "I think it's better than fine."
"You think everything here is better than fine. You probably have stock in this place."
"I don't have stock in this place." He pauses. "I know the owner, though. Nice guy. Makes excellent risotto."
"Of course you do." By the time the check comes, it's nearly 10 PM. The restaurant has thinned out—just a few tables left, couples lingering over wine, the staff starting their closing routines. Lando pays without looking at the total, leaves a tip that's probably more than your entire meal cost.
"Ready?" he asks, standing and offering his hand. You look at it for a moment. At his palm, open and waiting. At the decision you're about to make. You take his hand. Outside, Monaco is cold and beautiful. The kind of night where the Mediterranean is dark glass reflecting city lights, where everything feels suspended and possible. Lando's car is waiting where the valet brought it around—matte black Porsche,
"I can walk," you say, even though you're not letting go of his hand.
"It's cold."
"It's twelve minutes."
"It's twelve minutes in heels." He opens the passenger door. "Let me drive you. Please." There's something in the please that gets you. Something vulnerable and honest that wasn't there before. You get in the car. Lando slides into the driver's seat and the engine purrs to life. He doesn't immediately drive. Just sits there with his hands on the steering wheel, staring out at the street.
"You okay?" you ask.
"Yeah." He glances at you. "Just thinking."
"About?"
"About how I'm going to convince you to let me come upstairs."
Your stomach flips. "Lando."
"I know, I know. You said one chance. I'm not fucking it up." He pulls out into traffic, smooth and controlled. "But I also know that if I drop you off and drive away, you're going to spend the entire night convincing yourself this was a mistake."
"It might be a mistake."
"Or it might not be." He takes the turn toward your apartment, like he's made this drive a thousand times. Maybe he has, in his head. "Either way, I'd rather find out tonight than spend another eighteen months wondering."
You don't respond. Just watch the city slide past through the window, trying to organize your thoughts into something coherent. Trying to figure out when exactly you decided to let this happen. Your apartment building appears too quickly. Lando pulls into a spot on the street—not in front, not obvious, but close enough. He kills the engine and the sudden silence is deafening.
"So," he says.
"So."
"This is the part where you invite me up for coffee that we both know we're not going to drink."
"Is it?"
"Or—" He shifts to face you properly. "—this is the part where you tell me to leave and I respect that and go home alone and hate myself for approximately six hours before texting you something stupid at 4 AM."
"Those are my only two options?"
"Probably not. But they're the most likely ones." His hand finds yours in the dark. "For what it's worth, I'm hoping for the coffee."
You should tell him to leave. Should protect yourself, keep the boundary you've barely managed to maintain. Should remember that this is Lando Norris, who broke your heart eighteen months ago and has given you no real proof that he won't do it again.
"Do you actually want coffee?" you ask instead.
His smile is slow and dangerous. "Not even a little bit."
"Then why did you offer?"
"Because you need the plausible deniability. Need to tell yourself we're just having coffee, just talking, just two adults having a completely professional and appropriate conversation at 10 PM in your apartment." He brings your hand to his lips, kisses your knuckles. "And I'll play along. I'll make coffee and sit on your couch and keep my hands to myself until you give me permission to do otherwise."
"You're very confident I'm going to give you permission."
"I'm not confident about anything right now except that I want you. Have wanted you for two years. Will probably want you for the rest of my life." His eyes meet yours in the dim light. "But I can wait. I'm good at waiting now. Eighteen months taught me patience."
Your heart is doing something complicated in your chest. "One coffee."
"One coffee," he agrees.
You get out of the car before you can change your mind. Lando follows, keeping a careful distance as you walk to your building's entrance. You're aware of his presence behind you—not crowding, not pushing, just there. Patient in a way he never was before. The elevator ride is silent. You're both watching the numbers climb—three, four, five, six, seven. Your floor. The doors open and you lead him down the hallway to your apartment.
Your hands shake slightly as you unlock the door. Lando notices but doesn't comment. Inside, your apartment looks exactly the same as it did when he was here four days ago. Clean and empty and sad. You see it through his eyes again—the bookshelf organized by color, the lack of personal photos, the overall sense that no one actually lives here.
"Coffee," you say, moving toward the kitchen. "How do you take it?"
"However you're making it." He's still standing by the door, hands in his pockets. Not moving. Not presuming. "Nice place."
"You said it was sad last time you were here."
"I said it looked like no one lives here. Different thing." He finally moves, but only to the living room, sitting on the edge of your couch like he's not sure he's allowed. "Do you actually live here or do you just exist in it?"
"That's a very philosophical question for 10 PM."
"I'm a very philosophical guy."
"Since when?"
"Since I spent eighteen months thinking about what I did wrong." He watches you move around the kitchen, getting mugs and grounds and trying to remember how your coffee maker works. "Lots of time to think when you're alone."
"You weren't alone. You had Magui."
"I told you. That was—"
"Uncomplicated. I remember." You measure out coffee with more precision than necessary. "How is she taking the break?"
"She said she saw it coming."
You turn to look at him. "She did?"
"Yeah." He runs a hand through his hair. "Apparently I talk about you. A lot. Even when I'm trying not to."
"That's—" You don't know how to finish that sentence. "—unfortunate for her."
"She's already seeing someone else. Some photographer. They've been friends for a while." He says it casually, like it doesn't bother him at all. "She's happy."
"And you're here."
"I'm here," he confirms.
The coffee maker gurgles to life. You lean against the counter, arms crossed, watching him watch you.
"Why did you really come to Monaco?" you ask. "Not the story about Emma being useless. The real reason."
He's quiet for a moment. "You want the truth?"
"That would be nice."
"I came because I couldn't stay away anymore. Because I won the championship and the first person I wanted to tell was you and you weren't there. Because I went to the Prize Giving with Magui and spent the entire night wishing it was you in that dress." He stands up, finally, moving toward the kitchen. Not quite entering it, just leaning in the doorway. "Because I've been tracking your pottery classes and your yoga sessions and every other thing you've tried to distract yourself with, and I realized I was being a creepy stalker instead of just coming here and saying what I should've said eighteen months ago."
"Which is?"
"That I love you. That firing you was the worst decision I've ever made. That I'm sorry." His voice cracks slightly on the sorry. "That I don't expect you to forgive me but I'm asking anyway."
The coffee maker beeps. You don't move.
"How were you tracking my pottery classes?"
"Really? That's your question?"
"It's a relevant question."
He sighs. "Charlotte."
"Charlotte?" Your voice rises. "Charlotte's been spying on me for you?"
"Not spying. Updating. She thought I should know you were okay."
"I'm going to kill her."
"She was trying to help."
"By reporting my activities to my ex-boss like I'm under surveillance?"
"When you put it that way it sounds bad—"
"It is bad, Lando!" You're fully yelling now, and some part of you knows you're not actually angry about Charlotte, you're angry about everything else—the eighteen months and the pottery classes and the fact that he's standing in your kitchen looking unfairly good and you want him so badly you can barely breathe. "You can't just—you can't track me and show up and expect me to just—"
"To just what?" He moves into the kitchen properly now, crowding into your space. "To just admit you still feel it too? To just let yourself want something instead of punishing yourself for wanting it?"
"I'm not punishing myself—"
"You're living like a ghost. Like you're waiting for permission to actually be alive again." His hands find your waist, not pulling, just holding. "Let me give you permission."
"I don't need your permission."
"Then take it anyway." His forehead drops to yours. "Take what you want. For once, just take it."
You're gripping his shirt. You don't remember reaching for him but you're holding on like he's the only solid thing in the room.
"This is going to end badly," you whisper.
"Probably."
"You're going to break my heart again."
"I'm going to try really hard not to."
"That's not good enough."
"I know." His lips brush yours, barely a kiss. "But it's all I've got."
You kiss him properly this time. Slower than in the restaurant bathroom, less desperate, more like you're both admitting something you've been avoiding. His hands slide up your back and you press closer, and the coffee sits forgotten on the counter, getting cold.
"Bedroom," you breathe against his mouth.
"You sure?"
"If you ask me one more time if I'm sure, I'm changing my mind."
He lifts you like you weigh nothing, your legs wrapping around his waist automatically. He carries you down the hallway, kissing you the whole way, only fumbling slightly when he has to navigate your bedroom door. Your bed is exactly where beds go, and he sets you down on it with a gentleness that makes your chest ache.
"Hi," he says, hovering over you.
"Hi yourself."
"Just so we're clear—this isn't just sex."
"Lando."
"I need you to know that. This isn't me trying to get laid. This is me trying to—" He stops, searching for words. "—to show you I'm serious. That I'm all in."
"You're going to show me you're serious by sleeping with me?"
"I'm going to show you I'm serious by staying." His hand cups your face. "By waking up here tomorrow. By making you actual coffee in the morning. By not running away when it gets complicated."
"It's already complicated."
"Then I guess I'm not going anywhere." He kisses you again, and this time there's a promise in it. A commitment you're not sure either of you are ready for but are making anyway. Your hands find the buttons of his shirt. Start working them open one by one. He watches your face the whole time, like he's memorizing this, like he's afraid if he blinks you'll disappear.
"Still with me?" you ask when his shirt is open, hands spread on his chest.
"Always." His hand slides into your hair. "Even when you don't want me to be."
"Annoyingly persistent."
"One of my best qualities." He pulls your dress over your head in one smooth motion, and then you're both just staring at each other in the dim light from the hallway. "Fuck. I forgot how beautiful you are."
"You saw me three days ago."
"Wasn't close enough." His hands map your body like he's relearning it—ribs, waist, hips, thighs. "Wasn't touching you like this."
You pull him down, tired of talking, tired of thinking, tired of all the reasons this is a terrible idea. His weight settles over you and everything else falls away—the eighteen months, the fear, the certainty that this will end in disaster. Right now, there's just this. Just him. Just the feeling of finally, finally being exactly where you want to be.
Even if it's temporary. Even if it's going to hurt later. Right now, though, it's enough.
Days four through fourteen pass in a blur of Emma and schedules and Lando showing up at your apartment every single night like he lives there. He doesn't live there. You've been very clear about that.
"I'm just here a lot," he says on day seven, making coffee in your kitchen at 6 AM like he belongs there. Like it's normal, like this is normal. "That's different from living here."
"You have a toothbrush in my bathroom."
"Emergency toothbrush."
"You have clothes in my closet."
"Just in case."
"Lando."
"What?" He's grinning now, that insufferable grin that makes you want to hit him and kiss him in equal measure. "I'm respecting boundaries. You said I couldn't move in. I'm not moving in. I'm just visiting. A lot."
"You stayed here six nights in a row."
"And I went home on the seventh. See? Not living here."
You throw a dish towel at his head. He catches it, still grinning. The thing is—it's good. Terrifyingly good. He makes you coffee in the morning and you pretend to be annoyed about it. He stays up too late watching old race footage and you fall asleep on his chest listening to his heartbeat. He fucks you against your kitchen counter on day nine and you return the favor in your shower on day eleven and somewhere in between all of that, you stop counting days.
Emma is thriving. That's the word everyone keeps using—thriving. She's confident now, anticipating Lando's needs before he asks, managing his schedule like she's been doing it for years instead of two weeks. "You're amazing," she tells you on day twelve, over coffee in the MTC cafeteria. "Seriously. I don't know how you did this job for so long."
"Practice. Lots of practice."
"And patience. God, so much patience." She stirs her latte. "He's different lately though, have you noticed?"
Your stomach flips. "Different how?"
"Happier? Less stressed? I don't know, he just seems lighter." She smiles. "Whatever you said to him about being nicer to me, it worked. He actually asked about my Christmas plans yesterday. Like, genuine interest. It was weird."
"Good weird?"
"The best weird." She leans forward. "Can I ask you something personal?"
"That depends on the question."
"You and Lando. Are you... I mean, it seems like—" She stops, cheeks flushing. "Sorry. That's none of my business."
"It's complicated."
"That's what everyone says when they're together but don't want to admit it." She's still smiling, not judging, just observing.
Day fourteen arrives with the weight of finality. Your last day training Emma. Your last day having an excuse to be at MTC every morning. Your last day before everything becomes real or falls apart or some combination of both. Emma brings you flowers. Actual flowers—a bouquet of peonies tied with a ribbon.
"Thank you," she says, and her eyes are suspiciously shiny. "For everything. For being patient with me. For not making me feel stupid when I messed up. For teaching me how to do this job without losing my mind."
"You're going to be great," you tell her, and you mean it. "Better than great. You're going to be exactly what he needs."
"I hope so." She hugs you, quick and tight. "Will you still answer if I text you with questions?"
"Of course."
"Even stupid questions?"
"Especially stupid questions."
Lando doesn't show up all day. You tell yourself it's fine, that he's busy, that he's giving you and Emma space to wrap things up properly. You tell yourself a lot of things that aren't quite true. At 5 PM, Emma leaves. You pack up your things—tablet, the notes you've accumulated, the coffee mug you've been using that technically belongs to McLaren. You're stalling. You know you're stalling when your phone buzzes.
You take the elevator to the fourth floor for what might be the last time. Lando's office door is open. He's standing by the window, still in team gear, and he turns when you walk in. "Hey," he says.
"Hey."
"So. Two weeks."
"Two weeks," you confirm.
"Emma's going to be fine."
"She is."
"Thanks to you." He moves toward you, hands in his pockets. "I, uh. I got you something. To say thank you. For the training."
"Lando, you don't have to—"
"I wanted to." He pulls an envelope from his desk drawer. "It's not much. Just a little something." You open it. It's a check. A very large check. More than double what you agreed on.
"This is too much."
"It's not enough." His voice is quiet. "You came back when I asked. You trained Emma. You gave me two weeks when you could've told me to fuck off."
"I did tell you to fuck off."
"And then you came anyway." He's smiling now, that soft smile that's just for you. "Thank you."
"You're welcome." You fold the check, tuck it into your bag. "So I guess this is it."
"Is it?"
"The two weeks are up. I'm done. You and Emma are set."
"What about us?"
There it is. The question you've been avoiding for fourteen days.
"I don't know," you admit. "What about us?"
"I don't want this to end." He says it simply, honestly. "The two weeks are up but I'm not ready to stop seeing you every day. Coming to your apartment. Waking up next to you. All of it."
"Lando."
"I know it's fast. I know we're still figuring things out. But I'm all in. I told you that. I meant it." He takes your hands. "Move in with me."
You stare at him. "What?"
"Move in with me. My place. I have space. A lot of space. You could—"
"No."
"No?"
"We've been doing this for two weeks. That's not enough time to—"
"It's been two years," he interrupts. "Two weeks is just how long it took us to stop being idiots about it."
"That's not how this works."
"Then how does it work?" He's frustrated now, you can see it in the set of his jaw. "Tell me. Tell me what I need to do to prove I'm serious."
"I don't know! I don't have a checklist of requirements. I just," You pull your hands back. "I need time. I need to know this isn't going to fall apart the second things get hard."
"Things are already hard. We're still here."
"Two weeks isn't hard, Lando. Two weeks is the easy part. The hard part is six months from now when you're traveling and I'm here and we haven't seen each other in weeks. The hard part is when I do something that pisses you off and you remember why you fired me in the first place."
"That's not going to happen."
"You don't know that."
He opens his mouth. Closes it. "You're right. I don't know that. But I know I want to try. I know that two weeks with you has been better than eighteen months without you. I know that I'm in love with you and I don't want to waste any more time pretending I'm not."
Your chest aches. "I need to go."
"Where?"
"Home. My home. I need space to think."
"Okay." He doesn't try to stop you. "Will I see you tonight?"
"I don't know."
"Tomorrow?"
"Lando."
"I'm just asking. I'm not pushing." But you can see it in his eyes—the fear that this is it, that you're walking out and not coming back.
"I'll text you," you say finally.
"Promise?"
"Promise."
You leave before you can change your mind. Drive home in a daze, your apartment appearing too quickly. Inside, it's exactly as you left it this morning—coffee mugs in the sink from breakfast with Lando, his shirt draped over your chair, evidence of him everywhere. You sink onto your couch and try to figure out what the fuck you're doing.
Christmas comes three days later and you spend it alone. Lando's in the UK—family obligations, his mum's house in Somerset, the kind of traditional British Christmas that involves too much food and badly wrapped presents and everyone arguing about charades. He invited you. Asked you three times, actually, each time more hopeful than the last.
You said no.
"I don't want to meet your family," you'd told him. "Not yet. It's too much."
"They'd love you."
"That's not the point."
"Then what is the point?"
"The point is I need space. I need to figure out if this is real or if it's just us getting caught up in each other again."
He'd looked like you'd slapped him. "Right. Space. Okay."
He texted you on Christmas morning, then a hour later, and the hour after that. Charlotte called twice asking if you're spending Christmas alone, you lied, she definitely didn't believe you.
The day after Christmas, you're sitting in your apartment in pajamas and the same book you've been pretending to read for three days when your doorbell rings at 2:47 PM. Lando is standing in your hallway in a Christmas sweater—an actual, honest-to-god Christmas sweater with reindeer on it. He's holding a small gift bag, silver with white tissue paper, and he looks nervous.
"Hi," he says.
"Hi."
"Can I come in?"
You step aside. He walks in, setting the gift bag on your coffee table like it might explode. "You didn't have to get me anything," you say.
"I know. I wanted to." He shoves his hands in his pockets. "How was your Christmas?"
"Fine. Quiet."
"Mine was loud. Too loud. Kept thinking about how you'd hate it—all the noise and the people and my mum asking a million questions."
"She asked about me?"
"Yeah. She wanted to know why I invited someone and then showed up alone. Gave me a whole lecture about not screwing things up." He smiles, but it's strained. "She's very wise."
You gesture to the couch. He sits. You sit on the opposite end, keeping distance between you. "The training finished well," he says, like this is a business meeting. "Emma's doing great."
"I know. She texted me."
"Right. Of course." He's fidgeting now, picking at a loose thread on the couch. "I, uh. I missed you. At Christmas. Kept looking around like you might show up even though I knew you wouldn't."
"Lando."
"I know you need space. I'm trying to give you space. But it's been three days and I'm going insane." He looks at you finally. "I don't know how to do this. Don't know how to prove I'm serious without being overwhelming. Don't know how to give you time without feeling like I'm losing you."
"You're not losing me."
"Aren't I?" His voice cracks slightly. "You spent Christmas alone. You won't move in with me. You barely text me back. What am I supposed to think?"
"That I'm scared." The admission comes out quiet. "That I'm terrified this is going to fall apart and I don't know if I'll survive it a second time."
"So don't let it fall apart." He moves closer. "Stay. Fight for this. Give us an actual chance."
"I am giving us a chance."
"Are you? Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you're preparing for the end before we've even really started." His hand finds yours. "I'm not going anywhere. I don't know how many times I need to say it. I'm not firing you. I'm not leaving. I'm not changing my mind."
"You can't promise that."
"Yes, I can." He reaches for the gift bag, holds it out to you. "Open it."
"Lando."
"Please. Just open it."
You take the bag. Pull out the tissue paper. Inside is a small box, velvet, the kind that makes your heart stop. "It's not what you think," he says quickly. "I mean—just open it."
You open it and it's a key. A single key on a keyring, simple and silver.
You stare at it. "It's to my place," Lando says, words tumbling out fast now. "I know you said you won't move in. I heard you. But I want you to have it anyway. So you can come over whenever. So you know you're always welcome. So you can—" He stops. Takes a breath. "So you can stop thinking of my place as mine and start thinking of it as ours."
Your vision blurs. "Lando."
"I know it's not a grand gesture. I know it's just a key. But I don't know how else to show you I mean it. That I want you in my space, in my life, in everything." His thumb brushes your knuckles. "You said I needed to prove I'm serious. This is me proving it. Take the key. Use it or don't use it. But know it's there. Know you have a place with me whenever you're ready."
You're crying now. Properly crying. And Lando looks panicked.
"Shit. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you cry. If it's too much—"
You kiss him. Hard and desperate and with your hands fisted in his ridiculous Christmas sweater. "It's perfect," you whisper against his mouth. "You're perfect."
"I'm really not."
"Shut up and let me have this."
He laughs, and it sounds like relief. "Okay."
You pull back, wiping your eyes. The key sits in the box, catching the light.
"I'm still scared," you admit.
"Me too."
"But I want this. I want us."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." You pick up the key, test its weight in your palm. "I'm not ready to move in yet. But maybe—maybe I could stay over more? Start keeping more things there?"
"Yes. Absolutely. Whatever you want." He's grinning now, that full devastating smile. "You can reorganize my entire closet if you want. Color-code my kitchen. Do that thing you do where you arrange everything by frequency of use."
"You make me sound like a psychopath."
"You are a psychopath. It's one of my favorite things about you." He pulls you into his lap, arms wrapping around you. "Merry Christmas."
"Merry Christmas." You press your face into his neck, breathing him in. "For the record, I missed you too."
"Yeah?"
"So much I almost got on a plane to Somerset."
"You should've."
"Your mum would've hated me. Strange woman showing up on Christmas."
"My mum would've loved you. She already does, actually. Based entirely on my descriptions." He pulls back to look at you. "Fair warning—she's going to want to meet you. Properly. Probably at Easter or something equally family-oriented and terrifying."
"Easter's months away."
"So we have time to prepare." His hand cups your face. "You'll be ready by then. I know you will."
"How are you so sure?"
"Because you're here. Because you're crying over a key. Because you're scared but you're doing it anyway." He kisses your forehead. "That's the bravest thing I know."
You stay like that for a long time—curled up on your couch with Lando, the key in your hand, the future stretching out uncertain and terrifying and full of possibility. It's not perfect. You're still scared. He's still Lando Norris with all the complications that entails. But it's real. And maybe that's enough. Maybe that's everything.
Eight Months Later
The private jet levels off somewhere over Europe. You're curled up in the leather seat across from Lando, watching him pretend to read the same page of his book for the fifth time. You've been living together for six months now—his place became your place became our place somewhere around month three when you finally stopped keeping a drawer at your apartment "just in case." You sold that apartment four months ago. Haven't regretted it once.
"Nervous?" you ask.
"About what?" He sets the book down, reaches for your hand. The promise ring sits on your right hand, exactly where it's been for eight months. You've gotten used to the weight of it. Used to the way Lando looks at it sometimes, like he's planning something.
"You've read the same page five times."
He laughs, caught. "Fine. Maybe a little nervous." He stands up, walks to his bag. "Actually, I have something for you."
"Lando—"
"Close your eyes. Trust me."
You close your eyes. Feel silk brush against your face—a blindfold. He ties it carefully at the back of your head. "What are you doing?"
"Surprising you." He takes your hand. "Just trust me. We'll land soon."
"We're supposed to be going to Belgium."
"We are. Eventually." You can hear the smile in his voice. "But first—a detour." Twenty minutes of torture. You can hear everything but see nothing—the engine, the change in air pressure as you descend, Lando's thumb tracing circles on your palm like he's the one who needs reassurance. The plane touches down. Smooth landing. Lando helps you stand, guides you down the stairs carefully, his hand firm on your waist. The air is different here—warmer than Monaco, with a breeze that smells like salt and something floral you can't quite place.
"Are we at the beach?"
"Maybe. Keep walking." He guides you across tarmac, then pavement, then sand. Definitely sand. You can hear waves now, the rhythmic crash of water against shore. The sand gives way to wood—a deck, maybe a dock. The sound of the waves is louder here. Then he stops. His hands on your shoulders.
"Okay," he says, and his voice is different now. Nervous. "You can take it off."
You untie the blindfold, let it fall.
You're standing on a dock. The sun is setting over crystal-clear water that stretches to the horizon. There's a villa behind you, white stone and huge windows, the kind of place that's definitely not in Belgium. Palm trees. Bougainvillea climbing the walls. The most beautiful sunset you've ever seen painting everything gold and pink.
"Where are we?" you breathe.
"Greece." Lando's voice comes from behind you. "Santorini, specifically."
You turn around and Lando Norris is on one knee. Your heart stops. Actually fucking stops because he's holding a box—a different box than the one from eight months ago. This one is smaller, more delicate, and when he opens it there's a ring inside that catches the sunset and throws light everywhere.
"I know this is fast," he starts, and his voice is shaking. "I know eight months isn't very long in the grand scheme of things. But I've been in love with you for two years. I wasted eighteen months of that being an idiot. And the last eight months have been everything. Coming home to you. Waking up next to you. Fighting about whose turn it is to do dishes and making terrible pasta at midnight and watching you reorganize my closet for the third time." He takes a shaky breath. "I don't want to waste any more time. I don't want to wait until it's been a year or two years or whatever arbitrary timeline is supposed to make this acceptable. I know what I want. I've known since Qatar. I've known since before Qatar."
You're crying already. God, what is happening?
"You make me better. You make everything better. You call me on my shit and you're there at 3 AM when I can't sleep and you make Emma text you updates because you're worried about her even though you don't work for me anymore. I love you. I love you so much it's stupid. And I want to marry you. I want to marry you and fight about coffee orders and have you reorganize our entire life and grow old and—"
"Yes," you interrupt.
He blinks. "What?"
"Yes. I'll marry you. Obviously I'll marry you, you idiot."
"I had a whole speech prepared—"
"I don't care about the speech." You're pulling him up off his knees, laughing and crying at the same time. "Ask me. Properly."
He laughs, stands up, takes the ring out of the box with shaking hands. "Will you marry me?"
"Yes. A thousand times yes."
He slides the ring onto your left hand—your actual left hand, the important one. It sits there catching the light, real and perfect and terrifying. "I can't believe you did this," you say, and you're in his arms now, held tight against his chest. "Greece. A sunset. What about Spa? The race?"
"Fuck Spa." He's grinning against your hair. "We'll get there Sunday. I told Zak I needed a couple days. Told him it was important. Everyone knows—McLaren, Emma, Charlotte. They're all in on it. I've been planning this for three months." He pulls back to look at you, and his eyes are shiny. "I'm yours. For as long as you'll have me."
"Forever, then."
"Forever." He kisses you as the sun sets over Santorini, soft and deep and perfect. When he pulls back, he's still grinning. "No take backs."
Lando pushes the door open to the bedroom and you see champagne on ice, rose petals scattered across the bed, the whole romantic setup that he definitely planned down to the last detail. "You're very sure of yourself," you say, even as he's walking you backward toward the bed. "What if I'd said no?"
"You didn't." His hands find your waist, slide under your shirt. "And even if you had, I would've asked again tomorrow. And the next day. And the day after that until you said yes."
"That's insane."
"That's commitment." He pulls your shirt over your head, tosses it somewhere behind him. "Now stop talking and let me worship my fiancée." The word makes you clench. Fiancée. You're his fiancée now. The ring on your finger catches the candlelight as you reach for him, pulling him closer.
"I love you," you whisper against his mouth.
"I love you too." His hands are everywhere now—in your hair, on your skin, working open the button of your jeans. "And I'm going to spend the rest of the night proving it." He pushes you down onto the bed and follows you, covering your body with his. His mouth finds your neck, biting down just hard enough to make you gasp, and you arch into him. "Shh." He's working his way down, kissing and biting and marking you as he goes. "Let me take care of you. Let me show you what it means to be mine." He makes quick work of the rest of your clothes, and then his mouth is between your thighs and you're fisting your hands in the expensive sheets, gasping his name. He takes his time, licking and sucking and bringing you right to the edge before pulling back.
"Not yet," he says, grinning up at you with his mouth wet and obscene. "Want you desperate for it. Want you begging."
"I hate you."
"No, you don't." He slides two fingers inside you, curling them just right. "You love me. You're going to marry me. And right now, you're going to come for me." He lowers his mouth again and you shatter, coming hard with his name on your lips and your hands in his hair. He works you through it, drawing it out until you're shaking and pushing him away.
"Too much," you gasp.
"Not nearly enough." He's pulling off his own clothes now, and when he's finally naked he settles between your thighs, the head of his cock brushing against you. "Ready?"
"God, yes." He slides in slowly, so slowly, and you can feel every inch. When he's fully seated he stops, just breathing hard against your neck.
"Fuck," he groans. "Feel so good. Always feel so good. My perfect girl. My fiancée. Mine."
"Yours," you agree, wrapping your legs around his waist. "Always yours."
He starts moving then—slow at first, then harder, faster, until the bed is slamming against the wall and you're both gasping. His hand slides between your bodies to find your clit and you're coming again, clenching around him as he fucks you through it. "That's it," he growls. "That's my girl. Come on my cock. Let me feel it, baby."
You're barely down from the second orgasm when you feel the third building. Lando shifts the angle and hits something inside you that makes you sob.
"Right there?" he asks, doing it again. "That the spot?"
"Yes—fuck—yes, don't stop—"
"Never stopping. Never letting you go. You're mine now. Forever." His rhythm is getting erratic, his grip on your hips tightening. "Gonna come inside you. Fill you up. You want that?"
"Yes—please—Lando—"
"Mine," he says fiercely, and then he's kissing you as you both come, him spilling inside you as you clench around him, both of you shaking and completely wrecked. He collapses on top of you, breathing hard. You can feel his heart racing against your chest, matching your own.
"Holy shit," you manage eventually.
"Yeah." He lifts his head to look at you, and he's grinning. "So. Still want to marry me?"
"After that? Absolutely." You trace his jaw with your finger. "Though I'm going to need you to do that again. You know, to make sure."
"Fiancée has demands." He's already hardening inside you again. "I think I can work with that." He does it again. And then again. By the time you finally collapse in a tangle of sweaty limbs and expensive sheets, the moon is high and you can barely move. "Can't believe you're mine," Lando murmurs against your hair, his hand finding yours to trace the ring there.
"Can't believe you proposed on a dock."
"Romantic as fuck."
"Insane as fuck."
"Same thing." He kisses your temple. "Get some sleep. We have Spa on Sunday and I need you well-rested."
"Why?"
"Because I'm going to win that race for you. For my fiancée." He says the word like he's testing it out, like he can't quite believe it's real. "And then I'm going to take you back to Monaco and fuck you in our bed as a race winner and your future husband."
"Very confident."
"Very in love." He pulls you closer. "Now sleep. I'll wake you up properly in a few hours." You fall asleep like that—engaged, thoroughly fucked, in Greece with Lando already planning tomorrow. It's him. It's always been him. And finally, you're both brave enough to admit it.
Summary: A London graphic designer dates a charming, ordinary guy named Lando who claims to work in marketing. When she discovers through a friend that he's actually famous Formula 1 driver Lando Norris, she leaves him heartbroken over the lies. After a conversation with his best friend Max, she shows up at a Grand Prix to see him and decides whether to give him a second chance.
Warning: Lies by omission, emotional angst, reconciliation.
Words: 8K
LONDO IN AUTUMN WAS a symphony of grey skies, wet pavements, and the smell of roasted chestnuts from corner carts. You lived in a small flat in Battersea, within walking distance of the Thames, where you worked as a freelance graphic designer. Your life was quiet, predictable, and gloriously anonymous—and that's the way you liked it.
Until you meet Lando.
It was Thursday afternoon in a bookstore in Shoreditch.
The bookstore wasn't a trendy one. Instead was a tiny, cramped second-hand shop that smelled of old paper and dust, the kind tourists walked past without noticing. You were hunting for an out of print design book. He was hunched over a shelf of racing biographies, muttering to himself.
“You’re good?”
“Sorry?” He muttered, still staring at the bookshelf as if he'd been personally offended.
"You've been standing there for ten minutes," you said, without looking up from your own search. "Are you trying to read the entire shelf?"
He turned, and you saw him properly for the first time. Curly brown hair falling over a clear forehead, a smile that was ninety percent teeth and ten percent pure mischief. He was wearing a worn out hoodie and jeans with a small rip at the knee. He looked like every other twenty-something in London.
"Busted," he said, his voice a soft British drawl. "I'm trying to decide if this biography is actually interesting or just has a good cover."
"Which one?"
He held up a book with a photo of Ayrton Senna on the front. "Racing. Probably boring, right?"
"I wouldn't know." You shrugged. "I don't follow sports."
His eyes lit up. Not with recognition—with relief. "Me neither. Well, I mean, I work in sports. Kind of. Marketing. But watching it? Put me to sleep."
You laughed. "So you sell something you don't even like?"
"Someone has to pay the bills." He grinned, extending a hand. "I'm Lando."
You told him your name. His handshake was quick, almost shy. "So, Y/N, what do you do? Besides judging strangers in bookshops?"
"Graphic design. Freelance. I make other people's visions look good."
"Sounds stressful."
"Sounds like staring at a screen until my eyes bleed." You smiled. "But I love it."
He nodded like he understood completely. "The grind. I get it."
You talked for another twenty minutes—about books, about the best coffee in London (he insisted on a place in Soho you'd never heard of), about his irrational fear of pigeons ("they're just seagulls in suits," he said). He was funny, easy, and when he asked for your number, you gave it without hesitation.
He texted you that night: Since you don't know good coffee, I'm taking you to that place in Soho. Saturday. 10am. Don't be late.
You weren't.
The coffee date turned into a walk along the South Bank. The walk turned into dinner. Dinner turned into a pattern: weekends at galleries, weeknights at your flat watching terrible reality TV, lazy Sundays with takeaway and his head in your lap.
It was easy, simple, and peaceful.
He never stayed over at his place. "Roommates," he said, waving a hand. "Thin walls. You don't want to hear them."
You accepted that. London was expensive. Everyone had roommates. So you just stop asking.
He travelled a lot. "Work trips," he explained. "Meetings. Conferences. The marketing grind never sleeps."
You accepted that too. He always brought you back something small—a keychain from Bahrain, a magnet from Melbourne, a ridiculous hat from Miami. He was thoughtful. Present. When he was with you, his phone stayed in his pocket, his eyes stayed on your face, and his laugh filled your small flat like sunlight.
"You're really bad at talking about your job," you teased one night, curled up on your sofa. "Every time I ask, you say 'meetings.' That's it. Just meetings."
"Boring meetings," he said, not looking up from your laptop screen where he was losing spectacularly at a game of digital chess. "Trust me, you'd fall asleep."
"Try me."
He paused. Just for a second. Then he smiled—that easy, disarming smile. "Okay. Last week, I had a meeting about vertical integration of cross-platform synergies."
"That's not a real thing."
"It's absolutely a real thing. It's so real I fell asleep in it. Twice."
You threw a pillow at him. He caught it, laughing, and pulled you into his arms. "See? Boring. Now let me focus. I'm about to lose my queen."
You let it go. Why wouldn't you? He was just a normal guy. A normal, charming, slightly mysterious guy who worked a boring marketing job and had terrible taste in chess moves.
You loved him. You hadn't said it yet, but you did. And he loved you—you could see it in the way he looked at you when he thought you weren't watching.
The lie, when it came, didn't arrive through a laptop screen.
It arrived through a mutual friend.
Chloe. You'd known her since university—a loud, lovely woman who worked in event planning and had a habit of accidentally gatecrashing the most exclusive parties in London. She didn't know Lando well. She'd met him twice, briefly, and remembered him as "your cute, vaguely mysterious boyfriend."
One Friday night, she called you, breathless.
"Y/N. Y/N, you are not going to believe this."
"I'm in the middle of a deadline, Chloe. Make it quick."
"I was at this thing tonight. A private event. Corporate. Really fancy—like, champagne fountains fancy." She was talking so fast the words tripped over each other. "And I saw him. Your Lando."
You frowned, still staring at your design software. "He's on a work trip. He said he was in—"
"He's not on a work trip, love." Chloe's voice went soft, almost apologetic. "He was on a stage. In a fireside chat. With a moderator. Talking about his season."
"His season?"
"Formula 1, Y/N. Your boyfriend is Lando Norris. The McLaren driver. He was sitting there in a team polo, talking about tyre degradation and championship points, and I nearly choked on my canapé."
You stopped breathing.
"That's not—" Your voice sounded strange. "He's in marketing. He told me—"
"Babe." Chloe's voice was gentle now. Heartbreakingly gentle. "I Googled him on the way home. Just to be sure. There are billboards. Sponsorships. Interviews. He's not in marketing. He's one of the most famous drivers in the world."
You hung up. Then you Googled him.
The results came back in 0.4 seconds.
Lando Norris. Age 26. McLaren Formula 1 driver. Winner of multiple Grands Prix. Net worth: millions. Endorsements: everything from watches to energy drinks. And there, in photo after photo, was his face. The same face that had fallen asleep on your shoulder last night. The same hands that had made you tea this morning.
But the smile was different. Sharper. More polished. A product.
You scrolled. And scrolled. And scrolled.
There was no marketing job. There never had been. There were only race weekends, simulator sessions, media obligations, and a life so far from "normal" that you felt dizzy just looking at it.
He wasn't just lying. He'd constructed an entire alternate identity. And you had believed every word.
You called him. It went to voicemail. You texted: Come over. Now.
He arrived an hour later, still in his "work trip" clothes—a hoodie and joggers, like always. He was smiling, holding a bag of your favourite Thai food.
"Hey. Sorry, I was in a—" He stopped. Saw your face. The smile faltered. "Y/N? What 's wrong?"
You were sitting on the sofa, your phone in your lap, the Google results still glowing on the screen.
"Chloe saw you tonight," you said quietly. "At a corporate event. She said you were on a stage. Talking about your season."
Lando went pale. The bag of Thai food slipped from his fingers, hitting the floor with a soft thud.
"Y/N—"
"You're Lando Norris." Your voice cracked. "You're a Formula 1 driver. You've won races. You have millions of fans. And you told me you worked in marketing."
He opened his mouth. Closed it. His hands were shaking.
"I was going to tell you," he whispered. "I was going to—"
"When?" You stood up, and he flinched like you'd struck him. "When were you going to tell me, Lando? After I moved in? After I said I loved you? After I built a whole life with a person who doesn't exist?"
"He exists." His voice was raw. "I exist. This—what we have—it's real. The job was the only lie. Everything else—"
"Everything else was built on that lie." Tears were streaming down your face now, hot and unstoppable. "Every time you said you were on a work trip, you were racing. Every time you said you had roommates, you were going home to your empty luxury apartment. Every time I asked about your day, you invented a fiction."
"I was scared." His voice broke. "I'm always scared. Everyone I meet wants something—money, access, photos. But you didn't. You just wanted me. And I couldn't—I couldn't risk losing that."
"That's not your choice to make!" You were shouting now, and you didn't care. "You don't get to decide what I can handle. You don't get to protect me from the truth by lying to my face for six months."
He reached for you. You stepped back.
"Please." His eyes were wet. "Please don't go."
"I can't." You grabbed your coat from the hook by the door. "I can't look at you right now. I don't even know who you are."
"I'm the same person. I'm the same—"
"No, you're not." You opened the door. "The person I fell for wouldn't have lied to me every single day."
You walked out. Behind you, you heard him say your name once—soft, broken, desperate. You didn't look back.
If you had, you would have seen him sink to his knees on your floor, head in his hands, the Thai food growing cold beside him.
Four weeks passed.
You threw yourself into work. You redesigned a client's entire brand identity in three days. You went for runs along the Thames until your legs gave out. You deleted his number, blocked his social media, and told yourself you were fine.
You weren't fine.
Everywhere you looked, there he was. On bus stops. On billboards. On the news. Lando Norris finishes P2 in Brazil. Lando Norris involved in a first-lap collision in Las Vegas. Lando Norris is seen leaving London restaurant alone, looking "subdued."
How could you not have noticed before? How did it take you so long to realize the lie?
The world saw a driver. You saw the man who'd pretended to be allergic to cats because he was scared of them. Who'd let you win at Scrabble even though he definitely knew the word "xi." Who'd kissed your forehead every morning like it was a prayer.
Your friends were supportive but confused. "So he's famous? Isn't that, like, a win?" one asked.
"It's not about being famous," you said, staring at a cup of tea you had no intention of drinking. "It's about lying. How could I trust anything he ever said?"
They didn't understand. How could they? They hadn't spent six months falling in love with a ghost.
You were sitting on your fire escape one evening, watching the London lights blink on across the skyline, when your phone buzzed. An unknown number.
Y/N? It's Max. Max Fewtrell. Lando's best friend. Do you have five minutes?
You stared at the message. You'd heard Lando mention Max a hundred times—the same Max who was "always late." The one who'd introduced Lando to terrible reality TV. The one Lando called when he couldn't sleep.
Your thumb hovered over "delete." But something—curiosity, loneliness, a stubborn ember of care—made you type back: How did you get my number?
Lando. He's a wreck. But he'd never use it himself. Can we talk? Please? Just a call. No pressure.
You sighed. The night was cold, and you were tired of being angry alone.
Fine. One call.
His voice was softer than you expected. Max Fewtrell had a face made for grinning—you'd seen photos—but on the phone, he sounded like a man who'd been carrying something heavy for a long time.
"Thanks for picking up," he said. "I know you don't owe me anything."
"I don't owe him anything either."
"No. You don't." A pause. "Can I tell you a story?"
"Did you ask to talk to me to tell me a story?"
“Please?”
"I'm not promising I'll stay on the line."
"That 's fair." He took a breath. "When Lando was fifteen, he was just a kid from Glastonbury who was really, really fast in a go-kart. No one is famous. No one is special. He'd go to school, get bullied for being small, then go to the track and lap everyone. Racing was his escape."
You didn't say anything.
"When he started getting noticed, the attention was… intense. People didn't see him. They saw a helmet. A potential paycheck. A stepping stone." Max's voice hardened. "He had 'friends' who only wanted paddock passes. Girls who only wanted Instagram followers. Even some family members got weird about money."
"I'm not those people."
"I know. That's the problem." Max laughed, but there was no humour in it. "He met you, and you had no idea who he was. You didn't care about lap times or podiums. You asked him about his day. You made him laugh. You let him lose at Scrabble."
Your throat tightened. "That doesn't excuse the lie."
"No. It doesn't." Max's agreement was immediate, absolute. "He was a coward. He should have told you the first week. The first month at the latest. But he got scared, and then he got trapped, and every day the lie got bigger and harder to undo."
"That's not my problem to fix."
"No," Max agreed again. "It's not. But here's what I'm asking you to consider." His voice softened. "He didn't lie to control you. He didn't lie to hurt you. He lied because for the first time in years, someone made him feel like a person instead of a product. And he was terrified of losing that."
You pressed a hand to your mouth. The tears were back.
"I've known Lando since we were kids," Max continued. "I've seen him win races. I've seen him crash. I've never, ever seen him cry. Until four weeks ago. He sat on my couch and he didn't speak for two hours. Just stared at the wall."
"Max—"
"I'm not telling you to take him back. I'm not even telling you to forgive him. I'm just telling you: he's not a liar. He's a scared twenty seven year old who made a catastrophic mistake because he fell for you too hard and too fast." He paused. "And maybe that's worth one conversation. On your terms. No pressure."
The silence stretched. A siren wailed somewhere in the distance.
"Where is he?" you asked.
"He's in Abu Dhabi. Final race of the season tomorrow." Max's voice was careful. "But he'll be back in London on Monday night. If you want to see him."
"I'll think about it."
"That 's all I ask. Thanks, Y/N. For listening."
He hung up. You sat on the fire escape for a long time, the phone warm in your hand, the ghost of Lando's laugh echoing in your chest.
You didn't decide to go. You just… went.
You'd spent the whole night thinking about that conversation, remembering every moment you'd spent with Lando those last six months. So Sunday in the morning arrived, and you booked a last minute flight to Abu Dhabi. You told yourself it was for closure. You told yourself you wanted to see the world he'd hidden. You didn't tell anyone—not Chloe, not your mum, not the small, hopeful voice in your head that whispered maybe.
The Yas Marina Circuit was overwhelming. The noise was a physical wall—engines screaming at a pitch that vibrated in your bones. The smell of burnt rubber and hot asphalt. The crowd was a sea of team colours: papaya orange for McLaren, red for Ferrari, blue for Red Bull.
You'd bought a grandstand ticket, high up, where you could see the sweep of the track. You sat on your hands to stop them from shaking.
You watched the formation lap. Watched the grid line up. Watched the lights go out.
And then you watched him.
Lando Norris in his natural habitat was nothing like the man who'd held your hand on the South Bank. That Lando was soft edges and self-deprecating jokes. This Lando was a predator. Precise. Aggressive. He defended against a Mercedes with ruthless intelligence, overtook an Alpine on the outside of a corner that made the crowd gasp, and when he crossed the finish line in third place—P3, a podium on the final race of the season—he screamed over the team radio with a joy so pure it made your chest ache.
That was the part of him he'd kept hidden. Not the fame. The passion.
As he climbed out of the car and pulled off his helmet, sweat-soaked and grinning, you saw the boy Max had described. The one who'd been bullied. The one who'd escaped to the track. The one who just wanted to be loved for who he was, not what he drove.
You stood up. Your legs were unsteady.
You didn't have a paddock pass. You didn't have a plan. But you had something better: a memory of a bookshop, a terrible chess player, and a laugh like sunlight.
You found Max first.
He was leaning against a barrier near the McLaren garage, watching the podium celebrations on a monitor. He was holding two bottles of water and looking vaguely lost. When he saw you, his eyebrows shot up, then softened into something like relief.
"You came."
"Don't look so surprised." You hugged your arms against the desert evening chill. "I need to see him. But I don't have access."
Max grinned—the real grin, the one from photos. "Leave that to me."
He led you through a labyrinth of temporary walls and security checkpoints, flashing a credential that seemed to open every door. The paddock was chaotic—mechanics in matching shirts, journalists with boom mics, drivers in team kits walking with the focused stride of people who'd just risked their lives at 200 miles per hour.
And then you saw him.
Lando was sitting on a crate outside the driver's room, still in his fireproofs, the top half unzipped and tied around his waist. He was alone, head bowed, phone in hand. He hadn't changed. He hadn't celebrated. He was just… there. Small. Tired. The podium champagne was still drying in his hair.
Max touched your elbow. "I'll be right over there." He pointed to a catering unit fifty metres away. "Take your time."
You walked forward. Your footsteps were silent on the asphalt.
"Lando."
He looked up. And the expression on his face—shock, hope, fear, disbelief—was more real than any podium celebration.
"Y/N?" His voice cracked. He stood up slowly, like he was afraid you'd vanish if he moved too fast. "What—how—"
"Max." You stopped a few feet away. Close enough to see the tear tracks on his cheeks beneath the champagne residue, the exhaustion in his eyes. "He's a good friend."
"He's an idiot," Lando whispered. "I'm an idiot. I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry."
"I know."
The word hung between you. He didn't move. He didn't reach for you. He just stood there, trembling slightly, waiting.
You took a breath. "I'm still angry."
"I know."
"I don't trust you."
"I know." His voice broke. "But I'll earn it. Every single day. If you let me."
"You lied about everything."
"Not everything." He swallowed. "The pigeon thing was real. I hate them. They're just seagulls in suits, I stand by that. And the Scrabble thing. I let you win. Every time."
"Every time?"
"Okay, most times." A tiny, trembling smile flickered across his face. "And the way you look when you're concentrating on a design—your tongue sticks out a little. And I love that. I love—"
"Don't." You held up a hand. "Not yet."
You knew how Lando felt, and despite all the lies and the four weeks apart, your feelings for him hadn't changed either. But you didn't want it to be like this, for the first time you said it to be under these circumstances.
He closed his mouth. Nodded.
You stepped closer. One step. Two. Close enough to see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes, the small scar on his chin from a karting accident at twelve.
"I came here because I needed to see if you were real," you said quietly. "The Lando in the car—that driver, that competitor—that's part of you. And you hid it. And that hurts."
"I know."
"But the Lando who brought me coffee in Soho? Who pretended to have roommates so he wouldn't have to admit he lives alone?" A tiny, reluctant smile tugged at your lips. "That Lando is also real."
His breath caught. "He's the only one I want to be. With you."
You reached out and took his hand. His fingers were calloused, still warm from the gloves, and they closed around yours like you were the only solid thing in a spinning world.
"I'm not promising anything," you said. "But I'm here. And I'm listening."
He pulled you into a hug—gentle, desperate, his face buried in your hair. He was shaking. So were you.
"Thank you," he whispered. "Thank you. Thank you."
From fifty metres away, Max Fewtrell raised a water bottle in a silent toast and grinned.
Three months later, you stood in the paddock at Silverstone. This time, you belonged there.
Lando had kept his promise. He'd answered every question, introduced you to every awkward family member, and let you watch every simulator session until the numbers blurred. He'd even let you design a custom helmet—a pigeon with laser eyes, which the internet either loved or hated.
You still had moments of doubt. Moments when the lie echoed. But he never deflected again. Every time you asked, he told the truth—even when it was embarrassing, even when it was painful.
And now, standing in the garage as he climbed into the car, you felt something you hadn't expected: pride.
He looked up at you through the visor, and you saw the smile even through the helmet.
"Bring me back something nice," you said.
He gave a thumbs up. Then the engine roared, and he was gone.
Max appeared at your side, holding two cups of terrible paddock coffee. "He's going to win today."
"You don't know that."
"I know him." Max shrugged. "And he's got something to prove now."
The lights went out. The cars screamed into the first corner. And somewhere in the chaos, a boy from Somerset who'd once been too scared to tell the truth drove like his life depended on it.
He finished first.
And when he climbed out of the car, tore off his helmet, and ran straight past his entire team to wrap his arms around you—soaking wet with champagne, laughing and crying at the same time—you didn't pull away.
"Thank you," he said against your ear. "For giving me a second chance."
"Don't make me regret it," you whispered back.
"I won't." He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes bright. "I love you. The real me. The whole me. Every stupid, racing-obsessed, pigeon fearing part."
You kissed him—right there, in front of the cameras, the crowd, the world.
"I love the real you too," you said.
And for the first time, there was no lie between you. Only the truth, finally told.
summary: after being dumped for “being bad luck”, you don’t expect that drowning your sorrows will lead to getting married with a fellow heartbroken soul
a/n: Surprise! I am still working on my Vegas fics! It’s just…there’s only so many ways you can get accidentally married in Vegas and I’d like to make them all unique
a/n2: this is set in the 2024/2025 seasons
Masterlist
yn
liked by lando, carmenmmundt, oscarpiastri, and 2,111,445 others
tagged: lando
yn: 4 years with the best man I know 🧡🧡 here's to many many more, my love 😘
view all comments
user1: I love them so much
↳user2: couple goals for real
↳user1: exactly!
oscarpiastri: congratulations on four years!
↳yn: thanks osc!!
user3: I love how lowkey they are?
↳user4: seriously the best thing a famous couple could be is quietly in love
↳user5: yes!
↳user3: *side eyes certain couples* I completely agree
lando: 🧡🧡
↳yn: 💋💋
user6: …ok is it just me or was that very…underwhelming?
↳user7: no seriously??? She posted so many nice pictures and wrote poetry about him today and the most he's commented is 2 hearts???
user8: all men do is disappoint, honestly
user9: has anyone else seen ln4fans post?
↳user10: …how dare they??? yn has been by lando's side for YEARS…
ln4fan
liked by user, user, user, and 728,183 others
ln4fan: save my man! This is not his season and I do believe it's all yn's fault! He's had 3 dnfs and a dns in the last 6 races and it's only been the races that yn's been at. He really needs to dump the bad weight
view all comments
user11: wow
user12: I couldn't agree more!
user13: every single word you just said was wrong actually
user14: I've never seen anyone be so extremely wrong in my life really
user15: finally someone else is saying this!! I've BEEN saying it for years oh my god
↳user16: I don't know why you're celebrating? Lando and yn have been in love since before he started f1? Like he talks about their unspoken thing all the time
↳user17: be for real she's totally not fit to be a wag — she's never at the races, she's done nothing to support his brand…
↳user16: she has her own life? She doesn't need to revolve her life around his
↳user15: but a little more support to him wouldn't be too much to ask?
user18: I'm still stuck on the fact that Lando has had so much bad luck lately
↳user19: I went back to see which races she's been at and what lando finished and it's not great
↳user18: what really?
↳user19: he's never scored higher than 7th when yn is at a race — and that was only a single race, more commonly it was 9th or lower
↳not_lando: what?
↳user18: that's so crazy!
f1gossip
liked by user, user, user, and 1,823,813 others
f1gossip: Trouble in paradise? Fans spotted Lando Norris and long term girlfriend yn ln fighting after his disastrous qualifying today. Is this just a bump in the road or are certain rumors (that state that yn is Lando's bad luck charm) true?
view all comments
user20: Lando if you make my girl yn cry, I'm gonna make you fight
user21: dump her dump her dump her
↳user22: oh my god get a life
user23: I've been a Lando fan for pretty much his entire career and have watched them grow up together…I've never seen them act like that
↳user24: no my heart is literally breaking for them
user25: are we children of divorce right now?
↳user26: I think we might be
↳user25: 😭😭
user27: I need more information right now actually…
f1gossip
liked by user, user, user, and 1,922,111 others
f1gossip: Something must be in that Vegas air — mere hours after Lando and yn were spotted arguing, Alexandra Saint Mleux (Charles Leclerc's girlfriend) was seen storming through the Harry Reid International Airport. Is this the end of another one of the paddock's iconic relationship?
view all comments
user28: I don't know what's happening in Vegas but if it touches either of the lily's I'm hopping on a flight and fisting fighting them myself
↳user29: mood
user30: ok but we don't actually know if yn and lando are broken up!
↳user31: dude…they're totally broken up
↳user30: we don't know that yet! Let me have hope
user32: good! I never liked her
↳user33: just say you're jealous and get over yourself
user34: petition to ban Vegas forever? I can't take this anymore
↳user35: SIGNING RIGHT NOW
Private Messages: The Leclerc’s
Instagram Stories
user36 responded noooooo this is the worst timeline
oscarpiastri responded did you guys really break up?
user37 responded what do you mean you broke up???
user38 responded FINALLY YOU DROPPED HER
alex_albon responded lily is yelling at me right now what do you mean you guys broke up?
user39 responded this is gonna be good for you
user40 responded girl I'm so sorry
lilymhe responded what happened?? The one race I actually miss
user41 responded omg he actually did it
carmenmmundt responded call me hun
user42 responded was it mutual??
Private Messages: Charles and yn
lasvegasgossip
liked by user, user, user, and 17,222,125 others
lasvegasgossip: word on the street is that a famous but heartbroken athlete got hitched last night…who could it be?
view all comments
user50: oh my god who's in Vegas this weekend?
↳user51: the raiders and the browns are in town
↳user52: so are the knights and the kraken
↳user53: and so is f1…
user54: so many teams in the city this weekend and yet it could be any athlete that's not playing too
↳user55: I'm more focused on the heartbroken part like who's recently been heartbroken??
↳user56: I mean Lando Norris and yn ln just broke up?
↳user57: there's like 5 recent breakups with the hockey teams it could be
↳user58: there's no one in the football teams that could be described as heartbroken?
↳user59: there was something weird happening with Charles Leclerc and Alexandra Saint Mleux?
↳user60: so it could literally be anyone?
user61: I'm placing money on lando
↳user62: he does seem like someone who would get spontaneously drunk married
↳user63: drunk?
↳user62: all marriages in Vegas are drunk
f1fan
liked by user, user, user, and 2,822,193 others
f1fan: in a shocking turn of events, Lando Norris finishes the 2024 season with a DNF, DNS, DSQ, and a rare DNQ respectively — what a massive disappointment this must be for the British driver that was the favorite underdog of the season
view all comments
user64: HA this is totally because he dumped his biggest support system like a loser
↳user65: harsh but I agree
user66: who do I need to fight?? Like what the hell was that
↳user67: that was KARMA and JUSTICE for yn!!
↳user68: JUSTICE FOR YN
user69: I just…what the fuck happened? He was literally catching up to max and then all that shit happened??
↳user70: she probably cursed him or something honestly
↳user71: seriously! Like did you see how she confirmed the breakup? He was all respectful and she…wasn't
↳user70: I still cringe when I think about it
user72: the whiplash I get between this post and charles'… good lord 😂
↳user73: Charles took all of his bad luck and dumped it on Lando!
↳user72: for real!
charles_leclerc
liked by maxverstappen1, scuderiaferrari, oscarpiastri, and 2,778,445 others
charles_leclerc: what an amazing end to the season — thank you to Ferrari and to my good luck charm. now it's time to rest and recharge for next year
view all comments
user74: hell yeah!
↳user75: you totally rocked it!
maxverstappen1: Congratulations Charles liked by charles_leclerc
↳user76: they still don't follow each other btw
user77: fricking amazing to watch this!
oscarpiastri: congrats!!
user78: good luck charm??? Who??
↳user79: it's not Alex is it?
↳user78: highly unlikely - it seems like they've broken up. they haven't been seen together since Vegas and while Alex has privated her instagram, the number of posts have gone way down
user80: calling it now! Charles is the one who got married in Vegas
↳user81: iconic if true!
user82: 4 wins right in a row? Sexiest thing I’ve ever seen
Private Messages: Charles and yn
charles_priv
liked by notyn, madmax, op81, and 2,945 others
tagged: notyn
charles_priv: spending the winter break with my wife ♥️♥️
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notyn: the best winter break I've ever had
↳charles_priv: same chérie
madmax: when did you get married???
↳charles_priv: when I got drunk in Vegas
↳notyn: not gonna lie I don't remember anything about that night…
↳charles_priv: me either
↳madmax: hilarious but congrats
pierre: you've been married for months now and are just telling us???
↳charles_priv: …oops?
↳notyn: that's on Charles!
↳charles_priv: chérie!
↳pierre: oh you're perfect for one another
op81: awkward but congratulations
↳charles_priv: we would appreciate it if this news doesn't reach Lando
↳op81: yeah that's not going to be a problem, I don't even know who you people are
op81: but fyi he's hard key moping
↳notyn: he made his bed
arthur: it was great to get to know you! Might have to take your side if you get a divorce
↳charles_priv: Arthur!
↳arthur: only one of you 2 made me fresh baked cookies and it wasn't you
↳notyn: you're welcome arthur 💙
↳op81: wait cookies are in the table?
↳charles_priv: only for Leclerc's!
↳op81: you adopted me so I count! liked by notyn
↳notyn: he's got a point babe
f1gossip
liked by user, user, user, and 1,182,283 others
f1gossip: romance in the air? Charles Leclerc has been spotted with a new girlfriend in recent weeks — who might this mystery woman be?
view all comments
user83: don't worry guys it's just me
user84: who is she????
user85: that's so fast?
↳user86: really?
↳user85: it's only been a couple of months
↳user86: a lifetime for him honestly
↳user87: ummm rude??
↳user88: but fair I feel
user89: twitter detectives! Who is she?
↳user90: no idea yet! It's still too new
↳user89: but I need to know??
user91: I don't really care who she is because HE looks so happy with her
↳user92: he does! And I'm so happy for him
Private Messages: Charles and yn
charles_leclerc
liked by yn, pierregasly, maxverstappen1, and 2,111,203 others
tagged: yn
charles_leclerc: that mystery woman happens to be my wife, thank you
view all comments
user93: holy shit PLOT TWIST
↳user94: I honestly did NOT see this coming
↳user93: it definitely wasn't on my bingo card for the year
maxverstappen1: Congratulations again you guys
↳yn: thanks max!
user95: I'm loving this so much?? Like Lando really dumped her for being bad luck and then Charles is literally dominating this season liked by yn
↳user96: It's even better! He calls her his lucky charm
↳user95: I can see why!
landonorris: what the hell is this?!?
comment has been deleted by the author
yn: love you too babe! liked by charles_leclerc
user97: did you guys seriously get married in Vegas?
↳yn: we did!
↳user97: …and you're gonna stay married despite it starting in Vegas?
↳yn: well something good had to come from our broken hearts liked by charles_leclerc
↳charles_leclerc: despite the beginning, you are the best thing that's ever happened to me liked by yn
f1
liked by user, yn, user, and 2,991,988 others
tagged: charles_leclerc
f1: This weekend decides it all! Should Charles Leclerc score a single point this weekend, he becomes the 2025 World Drivers Champion — will this be the year the Monégasque driver takes home the championship? Or will Max Verstappen become a 5x champion?
view all comments
user98: Charles! Charles! Charles
↳user99: Leclerc! Leclerc! Leclerc!
user100: we're all rooting for you Charles!
yn: it'll be my husband for sure
↳user101: alright there Mrs Leclerc, flexing on us
↳yn: 😂😂
user102: I'm so sat right now
↳user103: BIG SAME
↳user104: it's gonna happen for sure!
charles_leclerc
liked by yn, arthur_leclerc, maxverstappen1, and 3,102,291 others
tagged: yn
charles_leclerc: I got to marry my lucky charm all over again
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warnings: entirely self indulgent, lando is reader x oscars no.1 fan, more quiddich, the random house crossovers are an au classic, this isn’t a slowburn, its two completely chalant people, not proofread!!
synopsis: what happens in the astronomy tower…doesn’t stay in the astronomy tower [5.9k]
a/n: me writing a part 2??? unheard of. anyway, i unfortunately love them and see a part 3 in the making… 😭
MASTERLIST PART ONE
ancient runes was usually quiet. usually being the key word there.
but today, as you stepped inside the tall, echoing classroom with the enchanted windows that changed with the weather, every head turned toward you, because word had spread around hogwarts like wildfire.
because everyone saw oscar fly like a man possessed while staring at the pocket of hufflepuff's, and for once you couldn't escape it. and because max verstappen, star ravenclaw chaser, known menace, was already leaning back as far as he could in his chair, legs stretched out making himself comfortable, eyebrow raised when you walked in.
"well, well," max said loudly, drawing attention from two slytherin girls who were trying their best to show they weren't listening in. "my seeker's muse arrives."
you groaned, already regretting walking over to them the second you did it. "max, please."
oscar, sitting beside him, turned bright red immediately, he nudged his teammate with his elbow. "stop."
"can't," max said, obviously taking great enjoyment out of the embarrassment of you both. "it's physically impossible."
you slipped into the empty seat beside them, the seating chart had been set at the beginning of term, and unfortunately for your sanity, you were stuck between the ravenclaw duo for the entire year.
professor babbling swept in, parchment robes fluttering "today," she announced, "you'll be working in groups of three."
max smirked, already planning in his head more ways to annoy you the rest of class. "lucky you."
professor babbling clapped her hands sharply. "group three," she said, glancing at her list, "your task is to translate the inscription on stone tablet c. focus on the verb tenses. they're tricky." she explained as she set a cracked stone slab in front of your trio.
max squinted at it, already decoding the words he recognised in his head; oscar leaned forward, focused instantly, and you tried to ignore the fact that the sleeve of his robe brushed your arm. you were useless in this class anyway, so you were going to reap the benefits of being in a trio with two ravenclaws.
max hummed. "okay. this rune means 'protect,' this one means 'spirit,' aaaand this one means-"
"no," oscar said calmly, cutting him off. "that's not 'spirit.' that's 'moon.'"
his housemate looked offended at the insinuation he was wrong. "no it's not."
they both turned to you to pick a side, but you were looking down at your nails, picking at a piece of polish that was peeling when you heard one of them clearing their throats. "don't ask me, why do you think i'm using his notes?"
oscar cleared his throat and leaned closer to the tablet. "so," he said, pointing, "if this is 'moon,' and this is 'protect,' then the full line probably reads..."
you watched him think, shamelessly, it was one of your favourite things about him, the way his eyes softened when he focused, the way he tapped his finger when he almost had the answer, and the way his eyebrows dipped when he was concentrating.
oscar murmured, "'under the protection of the moon...'"
max finished for him, grinning at his teammate as they'd cracked the code, "'...the path will reveal itself.'"
professor babbling walked past your table, glancing at the initial translation from max before turning to oscar and you. "excellent," she said, looking at your translation. "group three, very accurate work. especially the final line."
max smiled smugly. "thank you. i did most of the heavy lifting."
you turned to look at oscar, choosing a moment max wasn't looking and you leant in. "i knew that was the moon rune."
oscar blinked, feeling his pulse race at the proximity, when you whispered to him again. "the notes you gave me last week."
"you actually read them?"
you smiled at him. "of course i do."
oscar could feel his face going warm, and when max realised, he groaned loudly. "i'm going to get a restraining order from the ministry for you two."
—
the great hall was buzzing when you entered, stomach grumbling with hunger as banners fluttered overhead, every table crowded with students stuffing their faces whilst plates kept refilling themselves with warm food and floating jugs poured pumpkin juice on command. it was truly your happy place.
you spotted the hufflepuff table instantly, its place and the walk there an immediate reaction when you enter. lando was surrounded by alex and a couple of the other players from the quiddich team, your beater adam and chaser amelia shoving more food onto their plates
“hufflepuffs’s biggest ravenclaw fan!” you heard him shout, already walking past him to another group of 5th years when lando grabbed your wrist and yanked you down beside him.
“horrible human,” you muttered, glaring at him, but put up no fight to move, instead beginning to fill your plate.
“i prefer merlin’s gift to the world,” lando replied, stealing your roll as you plucked it from the platter in front.
alex looked up from across the table, bemused at his friend, and although on the same wavelength, went about it in a much more lowkey way. “how was ancient runes?”
you glared at him as he failed to conceal a smile. “max and oscar made fun of each other the whole time-”
from beside alex, lando gasped dramatically, “they didn’t bully you, did they?”
“no-“ you were quick to argue back, but he was already cutting you off again.
“good,” he said, taking a huge bite of potatoes. “because if they did, i’d personally hex oscar so hard he’d-” he paused, eyes focusing on something, or someone more accurately, over your shoulder.
you could see the moments his eyes locked with someone across the hall, across to the ravenclaw table, with a groan you turned round, the nosey part of you needing to know what was stealing his attention, gasping when you finally saw where he was looking.
where you could see oscar was staring at you, not subtly, no attempt at pretending to even be subtle either, his eyes locked onto you, even as max was beside him animatedly telling a story, he nodded his head along, the occasional words to affirm that he was still indeed listening. you could feel your face beginning to feel warm, looking back at him one last time before turning back to see alex and lando looking at you.
“you’ve ruined that man.” lando commented, sticking his fork in one of the potatoes on alex’s plate as they hadn’t refilled yet. “he’s never going to be the same.”
your head was a mess of thoughts, burying it in your hands with a groan. “shut up, we have class together next.”
an idea was swirling in lando’s head, you could see it as clear as day, and him thinking was always a worry to you. “how could i forget our defence against the dark arts class with our lovely leclerc.”
“i’m thankful every day i chose not to do that class with yous,” alex added, swatting lando’s hand away from his plate once again.
—
defence against the dark arts was always a production when it was gilderoy lockhart teaching, you swore his classroom sparkled, literally sparkled and were so sure that someone (probably him) had enchanted floating gold dust to drift gently around the ceiling.
as you and lando walked in, he struck a pose at the front of the room like he was waiting for applause. “welcome, welcome, young defenders of justice!” he called, grinning so wide his teeth may have been magically whitened.
lando leaned toward you. “has he ever fought a dark wizard?”
“no,” you whispered, looking your ‘professor’ up and down. “but he’s written twelve books about pretending he did.”
charles slid into the seat in front of you, turning around with a smirk, oscar following closely behind him, they must’ve walked together from the great hall, you thought. “ready to be dazzled?”
“i think i already am,” you muttered, glancing around the sparkling room.
from the front of the class, descending the stairs, lockhart clapped his hands loudly. “today, my radiant pupils, we study duelling defence techniques! inspired by my award-winning chapter four: how i defeated the werewolf of wapping!”
leaning into the chairs in front, lando whispered, “didn’t that turn out to be a stray pabrador?”
“he obliviated the owners,” oscar replied in the same hushed tone.
clapping to catch your attention again, lockhart was looking directly at your table. “pair up!” he spoke in a sing-song voice. “i’ll be observing your technique and offering invaluable commentary.”
you barely had time to stand before charles spun around. “i want her,” he declared proudly, emphasising his words with a point in case anyone misunderstood.
oscar’s head snapped toward him, not even out of his seat yet. “what? why?”
charles shrugged, but the small smile creeping onto his face told you otherwise. “she’s the only one who can actually block my spells. lando falls over.”
lando gasped, “that was one time” he defended, offended by the stray he’d caught.
you opened your mouth to say no, already planning to pair up with lando like always, but lockhart swooped in, cape fluttering. “excellent choice, mr. leclerc! a fine witch indeed i’ve heard, your pairing will surely reflect my own famous duel with the troll chief of trondheim-”
“trolls don’t duel,” oscar muttered with a roll of his eyes, mostly to himself.
lockhart whirled upon hearing him. “what was that, mr. piastri?”
—
the class had split into two sides, those who were rooting for the gryffindor captain, and those cheering for you. staring him down from one end of the room, charles smirked. “ready?”
you tried not to notice oscar watching from your side like his life depended on it, instead focusing on when lockhart would raise his wand.
it felt like a lifetime standing opposite charles when your professor finally lifted his wand. “begin!”
instantly, charles fired a disarming charm, one which you blocked easily, dodging as he fired another at you.
lockhart placed a hand over his heart, sighing to himself as he looked to be reflecting. “such form! such grace! i haven’t seen reflexes like that since i defeated the banshee of bansko!”
lando looked like he was still offended about not being chosen, and oscar looked like he was being tortured.
your match continued smoothly, throwing your own disarming charm which charles blocked with lockhart dramatically narrating every move like he was commentating his own life story.
“marvellous! magnificent! reminds me of my duel atop mount-” he continued, as the class collectively agreed to tune him out.
your wrist flicked back as your spell rebounded, cursing under your breath as you felt the pain sizzle under your skin. everyone in the class had gone back to practice their own duels now, nobody except oscar and charles noticing when you hissed in pain, and oscar was very much aware when charles helped you steady your footing and fix your wrist movement to try the spell again.
lando changed from his defensive stance to lean closer to oscar, “mate, stop looking like you’re going to hex him.”
shaking his head, oscar ushered lando back into the duelling stance, although his friend's words were definitely still floating around in his head as he heard you laugh at something charles had said. “i’m not jealous.” he reaffirmed.
“you’re very jealous.”
when lockhart called for partners to switch, oscar practically teleported to your space, already pushing charles into lando’s path.
he stopped in front of you, trying to look casual and failing spectacularly. “hi,” he said softly, pretending to be shy, because you knew he was far from it.
you smiled back at him, internally laughing at his urgency to be your partner. “hi.”
behind oscar, lockhart clasped his hands excitedly. “ah! two of my brightest pupils! the Ravenclaw prodigy and hufflepuff’s rising talent! a splendid match, worthy of my duel with the vampire of venice!”
“didn’t he turn out to be an opera singer with allergies?” lando asked a little too loudly, with lockhart electing to ignore him.
oscar stepped closer, lowering his voice. “you okay? charles didn’t go too hard, did he?”
“i can handle charles.”
he nodded, relief softening his shoulders. “good, because now you’re stuck with me.”
before you could reply, lockhart snapped his fingers dramatically. “begin!”
oscar lifted his wand, slight hesitation in his stance, eyes flicking to yours. “you sure?” he asked.
instead of replying, you fired a disarming charm at him, one he was just narrowly able to block and smirked. “hit me.”
you fell into rhythm, he fired a spell and you blocked and vice versa, he was clean and sharp, voice clear as he pointed his wand towards yours, because now he wasn’t distracted by jealousy or lockhart’s dramatic monologues.
his focus was entirely on you, making sure he could counter your spells, block them, send them back, it was a synchronisation, lockhart practically squealed. “look at that synchronous motion! that is what real duelling looks like, elegant! fluid! full of passion, it reminds me of-“
charles, leaning on one of the benches at the other side of the class, “professor, they’re literally just blocking spells.”
you launched a final blocking spell that oscar fought off perfectly, landing right in front of you, close, far too close in front of a class of people who knew what was going on, you could barely hear lando whispering to charles over your own heartbeat.
“you’re… really good at this,” oscar breathed, cheeks flushed.
“so are you.” you complimented back, smile dimpling your cheeks.
lockhart clapped loudly, appearing between you like a glittery wall. “splendid! i dare say you two could duel side by side in any real battle, your synergy rivals my own with the sorceress of—”
—
the astronomy tower was as quiet as always at this time, the sun long set, cold air drifted through the archways and lanterns flickered. the sky stretched endlessly above you, dark velvet dotted with silver, and the moon hung high in the sky as it bounced off the smooth surface of the black lake below.
you came up here to breathe, as always, it was the perfect place to. defence against the dark arts had been… intense, oscar had been… even more intense. more than you liked to admit
and lando had been unbearable in the common room after. more than usual.
you leaned on the stone railing, watching hogsmeade lights twinkle in the distance, imagining someone stumbling into the thee broomsticks seeking out some butter beer, trying to sort out your thoughts, when you heard footsteps echo behind you. soft, careful, as if not wanting to disturb your peace, and all around familiar.
you didn’t turn. didn’t need to. “you know,” you said quietly, “i had a feeling you’d show up.”
oscar froze a few steps back. “how?” he asked, voice low.
“you always do.” you smiled at the horizon, the same one from your first encounter with him here, what felt like years ago, staying late after astronomy.
astronomy class had emptied, footsteps faded down the spiral stairs and the tower grew still. you’d stayed behind to finish a star chart, oscar stayed too.
you didn’t notice at first, too focused on finishing this chart before going back to the common room, he was sitting near the far railing, quill in hand, eyes lifted toward the sky like the constellations were telling him secrets.
only when the door shut did it actually hit you: it was just the two of you.
you walked to the railing with your parchment, the cold stone grounding you, oscar glanced over, not startled, just quietly aware of your presence, as if he hadn’t been stealing looks in your direction the entire class.
“didn’t think anyone else would stay,” he said, dropping his quill as he folded over his parchment.
“didn’t plan to,” you answered with a small shrug. “just, wasn’t ready to go back.”
he nodded, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “yeah.” nodding again. “same.”
silence slipped between you, gentle, not awkward, the kind that made the tower feel bigger, the sky closer, and the waves of the lake seem stronger.
stars shimmered above, gossiping about what was going on down below them, castle lights flickered below. after a long stretch of quiet, oscar pointed upward. “that ones my favourite,” he murmured. “altair.”
you tried to spot it, letting him move you to a better angle, ignoring the butterflies swarming in your stomach and the creep of heat up your neck. “why?”
he shrugged, eyes soft as he let the night sky envelope his features. “it isn’t the brightest, but still it matters.”
you looked at him then, really looked for the first time that wasn’t fighting for a snitch in a quiddich game, or as partners in class, and something warm settled in your chest.
shifting slightly closer, elbows brushing the railing, oscar spoke. “you don’t have to leave yet,”
you shuffled an inch closer, smiling as you spoke. “neither do you.”
so you stayed, two students from different houses, in a quiet tower, saying almost nothing.
oscar let out a breath, half sigh, half laugh, and stepped forward until he stood beside you, leaving just enough space to pretend you weren’t both thinking about closing it. he looked different in starlight, a softer, less guarded, almost unsure look. “sorry if i-” he began.
“no,” you said before he could finish. “you’re fine.”
oscar swallowed. “that’s not what you said after class. you looked, overwhelmed.”
“i was,” you admitted softly. “it’s not your fault.”
he was quick to shake his head, disagreeing with you. “it is, i keep noticing things.”
that piqued your interest and you turned to him, suddenly feeling the deja vu of a conversation very similar to this one. “like what?”
“when you concentrate, you tilt your head to the right. you hold your wand too tightly when you’re nervous.” the more he spoke, you could see the flush of his cheeks grow under the bright light of the moon. “you always chew the inside of your cheek before blocking a spell. you smile when you read ancient runes even when you pretend you don’t like the class. and-“
that was where he stopped, an internal thought blocking him from finishing his sentence. “and what?” you whispered.
he exhaled shakily, your question the external push to finish what he’d started. “and I always know when you’re watching me fly.”
your pulse fluttered, if it was possible you would say your heart skipped a beat, skin crawling under the heat making its way up your neck “oscar…”
he shook his head, flustered, wanting to get it off his chest, like it had been a weight he’d been bearing. “no, i…it’s not in a creepy way, i just feel it? when you’re watching, before i even see you.”
oscar met your eyes again, a timid look behind them threatened to look away, but he pushed past that feeling as he looked directly at you, almost feeling like he was looking through you, at your inner thoughts. “it’s like,” he gestured helplessly, desperately trying to find a way to convey his thoughts. “i don’t know. you change the way the air feels, i fly differently, i think differently anyway. i’m not sure that’s normal.”
he ran a hand through his hair, frustrated at himself, letting it fall back onto the railing with a small thud. “and then today, in class, charles kept, i don’t know, hovering around you, and i couldn’t focus. i kept messing up that’s how lando kept winning. he thought i was going to hex the bastard.”
you laughed softly, remembering the way charles had confessed he thought oscar was going to kill him in his sleep later that night. “he did.”
silence settled, not awkward, but heavy with something unsaid. it reminded you of that very first night all over again, the same setting against the railing, another cool night blanketing the astronomy tower, lights flickering from hogsmeade in the distance, except now you were the one in need of a butterbeer.
you shifted closer, placing your hand lightly on the railing next to his, not touching, never touching, neither of you brave enough for that yet. but close enough that the space between your fingers hummed, itching to be closed.
“oscar,” you murmured, “can I tell you something too?” he nodded. “when you’re out there on a broom, i read you like a book. i always know what move you’re about to pull.”
“you’ve told me that,”
“i don’t mean like a match read,” you clarified. “i mean you.”
he swallowed, feeling the weight of your words on his shoulders. “me?”
you nodded, feeling a little bit braver, your hand on the railing slowly, bit by bit, moving closer to his till you can feel the warmth radiating from him. “you fly the same way you feel.”
oscar stared at you, breath caught somewhere between disbelief and hope, glancing down at your hands now just millimetres apart. “and how do i, feel?” he asked, barely audible.
you stepped even closer, just an inch, but he felt it like he’d been hit by a stupefy. “you feel everything too much,” you whispered “and you try too hard to hide it.”
a laugh escaped him, a mix of quiet, embarrassed and relieved all at the same time. “that obvious?”
“only to me.”
he looked down at your hands, now only a breath apart, then back up at you. “why?” he asked softly.
you smiled, feeling that homely warmth in your belly again, and shrugged your shoulders. “we notice each other.”
the words settled between you like warm magic, and oscar opened his mouth, probably to say something meaningful or stupid or both, but a gust of wind pushed between you, scattering lockhart’s leftover glitter on your robes through the air like stardust.
he stepped forward, close enough that you felt the warmth of him again, could smell the aftershave he had on, and see the knot of his tie slackened by the day's wear, close enough that your shoulders brushed. “i’m glad i came up here,” he murmured.
you tried to keep your voice steady, like you weren’t internally screaming. “me too.”
he leaned in just a little, impossibly closer and you weren’t sure how you weren’t touching yet, not enough to be sure, just enough to hope, till his voice sounded at the shell of your ear. “can i walk you back?” he asked, hopeful.
you weren’t sure if he could hear your heart racing or not, and he swore you could hear his, but still you nodded. “i’d like that.”
oscar smiled softly, the kind of smile he had reserved for you, a fact you were yet to learn of, then he offered his hand, holding it out in the cold air, and you couldn’t help but stare for a second before taking it.
and the two of you walked down the spiral tower steps together, slowly, quietly, fingers brushing in a way that made everything feel like it was finally beginning to make sense.
—
hufflepuff gold shimmered across the left stands, a warm, buzzing wall of sound, whilst slytherin green crackled through the right, sharper, louder, hungry for a win.
you tightened your grip on your broom as madam hooch stepped forward onto the field, whistle in hand, “players. mount!” she announced.
you swung one leg over your broom, heart steady, three days after the astronomy tower moment with oscar, your focus felt sharper than ever. across from you, slytherin’s seeker carlos rolled his shoulders, giving you a competitive grin.
“no easy wins today,” he said.
you smirked back. “wouldn’t want one.”
the whistle blew, and the match launched into action almost instantly. your chasers surged ahead, passing with practised ease as they moved toward the slytherin hoops, beaters swept in behind them, ready to take the brunt of early bludgers.
george, slytherin’s strongest beater, wasted no time swinging hard, the bludger screaming past your ear. you ducked sharply, feeling the rush of wind where your head just was.
carlos laughed from above you. “stay awake, hufflepuff.”
quaffles blurred, bodies collided, many cobbing penalties were called and the crowd roared each time a chaser was close enough to the goalpost to score. but there was still no sign of the snitch.
on a hufflepuff breakaway from a failed slytherin attempt, amelia looped the quaffle past a green blur, scoring cleanly, the slytherin stands groaned whilst hufflepuff roared.
carlos hovered near the centre, eyes scanning the field, body loose but alert and you mirrored him. climbing higher now, higher still and waiting.
your heartbeat synced with the game as the wind stung your cheeks, your breath fogged in the cold air, tips of fingers turning a cruel pink. you lived for this.
a shimmer.
a flicker.
then, there in front of you, golden, darting through the air near the far corner of the pitch.
carlos saw it at the same moment, and you both lunged. wind slammed past your ears, flattening your body to your broomstick, streaking forward with everything in you.
carlos matched you and then pushed harder, only encouraging you to do the same. the two of you tore across the pitch in perfect parallel, gold just ahead, dancing, taunting, vanishing behind the ravenclaw stand which was half filled in yellow.
you didn’t care who was watching, you didn’t look up. not once. this was your world, your chase, and your game to win.
the snitch dropped, hard. a harsh change of direction and carlos reacted instantly, diving at a terrifying angle, you followed, closer to the broom, tighter to the fall, trusting your instincts and experience in the game as the ground rushed toward you.
you could hear the crowd gasp and carlos wavered, just slightly, enough to give you the edge over him as he resorted to throwing elbows, but you didn’t give in to him, focused only on the object in front of you.
you pulled out of the dive with one smooth arc, rising beneath him, cutting his angle off just enough that he had to correct. a second, a sliver of time, but just enough, because the snitch darted right, the direction you’d already been turning so you shot forward, carlos half a beat behind and your fingers our stretched, the air around you fighting back against the intrusion, but you could already feel the gold brushing your fingertips. your hand closing comfortably around the snitch.
the stands exploded in yellow, your teammates screamed your name, by the goal lando’s spinning his broom in an uncontrollable circle, reserves on the field tackling each other out of joy.
slytherins groaned, some in disbelief, some furious, and carlos landed beside you with a frustrated sigh but a grin still tugging at his mouth. “good catch,” he said, brushing wind-tangled hair from his face. “fast.”
you grinned back, shaking his outstretched hand for good sportsmanship. “you too.”
he shook his head. “not fast enough.”
the next second, your entire team was crashing into you, a range of hugs, shoves and broom handles knocking everywhere. their voices were loud in your ear and they shouted over each others, of course, lando’s standing out the most from the rest.
“i thought you were gonna die!” you laughed, breathless, exhilarated, heart pounding in victory. finally, when the noise calmed and you caught your breath, you looked up in the stands, expecting to find alex, which you did easily, and next to you him you saw blue and bronze, ravenclaw robes.
he wasn’t cheering wildly, or shouting, just standing by max and alex doing that for him, watching you, pride rolling off of him, because he knew what you were going to do before you did.
but the match was yours, your catch, your house’s win, and nothing, not even your racing heartbeat, as you forced yourself to look away, could take that away.
—
hogsmeade was covered in a perfect layer of winter snow, soft, glittering, and absolutely freezing. breath puffed in white clouds as your group made its way down the high street.
lando and alex kept rushing ahead and then circling back like overexcited puppies, whilst max trudged behind them with his hood up, mumbling, “if someone pushes me into another snowbank, i’m hexing all of you.” it was his fifth time uttering that warning, each time directed at lando and charles.
charles strolled next to you with an exaggerated sigh, “such a beautiful day,” he said, glancing dramatically between you and oscar, who’d been walking alongside him. “perfect for, i don’t know. pair activities.” he added the last part with a shrug, and oscar nearly tripped on an uneven cobblestone.
you glared at him, tempted to push him into a snowbank instead of max. “charles, please. stop.”
charles put a hand to his chest. “i am not suggesting anything! i am simply observing the weather.”
max deadpanned, “you’re matchmaking like my grandmother.”
“oui,” charles said proudly. “a french grandmother.”
“except you’re not french.” you pointed out, hearing him mutter a ‘thank merlin for that’ in response.
the moment the door to the three broomsticks opened, heat and chatter washed over all of you, butterbeer steam fogged the windows. the smell of roast pumpkin and cinnamon clung to the wooden walls. madam Rosmerta waved your group to a long booth in the back.
you started to slide in, only to have lando physically block you with his entire body. “nope! reserved seating!”
“for who?” you asked flatly, trying to sit down again when he stuck his arm out.
“for destiny,” lando said, winking in the most chaotic, unhelpful way possible, god you were going to kill him one day and were sure no one would blame you.
you frowned. “lando.”
alex jumped in with a grin. “what he means is that you should sit, uh, there.” he pointed to the only free seat left at the booth, directly beside oscar, and you shot a look at the entire table. every single one of them avoided eye contact with cartoon-level exaggeration.
max was suddenly extremely fascinated by the ceiling beams, charles inspected his fingernails like they contained ancient prophecies, lando whistled off-key whilst looking over the menu more times than necessary, and alex pretended to cough into a menu that was upside-down.
oscar offered a tiny, sheepish smile, “…you don’t have to if you don’t want-“
but your friends were already shoving everyone down the booth, making room for exactly one outcome. “it’s fine, don’t be daft.” so you sat beside him, your thighs brushed for a brief second. oscar inhaled sharply, and you pretended not to notice.
not soon enough, rosmerta brought out frothing butterbeers, and the second she left, the table erupted in the most painfully deliberate distraction scheme you had ever witnessed.
“so, max,” lando said at full volume, somehow louder than he usually was, clapping a hand on max’s shoulder, “tell us about the transfiguration essay!”
max blinked, he’d obviously missed this part of the plan during the discussion. “what? why?”
“so osc can talk to-” lando froze, realising he had said the quiet part out loud. “uhm, so we all learn something! educational outing obviously!”
charles snorted into his butterbeer, having to put it down in fear he’d choke, whilst alex coughed to hide his own laughter.
you sighed before picking up the warm drink. “you people are unbearable.”
then, very pointedly, the three of them turned their backs to you and oscar and started a fake argument over whether butterbeer foam was technically a potion ingredient. although, occasionally, they’d steal a glance at you two to see if anything was happening.
you leaned slightly toward oscar, warmth radiating from his body, you swore you could never be cold next to him “subtle,” you said dryly.
he laughed quietly, that soft, comfortable, slightly breathless laugh that always hit you harder than it should. “i swear i didn’t ask them to do any of this.”
“i know, you don’t need them to talk to me.”
his eyes flicked to you, pools of warm, hiding behind them were hints of nervousness and hopelessness. oscar searched your eyes for any signs of humour, to see if you were joking or if you truly meant your words, and he found none. he knew you were being serious.
and just when you thought your friends would stop, that they’d see you talking and give the schtick up, lando slammed his mug down. “oh no!” he announced loudly, “we’re out of…of whatever this is.” he held up nothing.
alex gasped dramatically beside him, “no butterbeer left? impossible!”
max pinched the bridge of his nose, obviously not enjoying this plan half as much as the others were. “there is literally butterbeer in front of you.”
“yes, max,” charles said gravely, “but is it… enough?”
“you’ve all lost your minds,” max muttered, but still, when they all stood, he joined them.
“we’ll be right back!” lando said with suspicious cheer. “don’t move!”
together, they disappeared toward the counter in a clump of chaos and scarves and suddenly you and oscar were alone in the warm corner booth, six glasses sat on the table of two.
just the two of you, finally.
oscar cleared his throat softly, “you’re, uh, not embarrassed, are you?”
your lips curved, taking another drink of your butterbeer, feeling the froth on your lips. “i have nothing to be embarrassed about, they lot should be, are you?”
“they make it hard not to be,” he admitted. “but, not because i mind sitting with you.” his honesty hit harder than butterbeer ever could.
“good,” you said quietly. “because I don’t mind either.”
oscar’s smile went lopsided, he shy kind you loved, although you could tell he was gaining that level of confidence he had on the quiddich pitch with you, his arm resting behind your head in the booth. “maybe we should do this on purpose next time.”
heat crept up your neck, chalking it up to the flames from the roaring fireplace. “maybe we should.”
you couldn’t enjoy the quiet for long before your friends returned, carrying far too many butterbeers, lando slid into the booth first, eyes catching you and oscar sitting closer than before, noting the arm draped behind your head and whispering (not quiet in the slightest), “it’s working!”
max elbowed him in the ribs, but even he couldn’t hide his smile at the two of you. “shut. up.”
charles raised his butterbeer like a toast. “to hufflepuff! to ravenclaw! and to the power of friendship!”
alex chimed in, “and strategic seating charts!”
oscar tried to hide the smile on his face by looking down, and you laughed into his chest, letting your head fall comfortably into the hollow of his shoulder, and he dared not move, stilling behind you, and you could hear his heartbeat racing under your touch.
and even in the noisy, chaotic three broomsticks, you felt unbelievably at home.
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.✦ ݁˖ important mentions ──── check out THIS POST.
.✦ ݁˖ summary ──── Lando lost everything the moment his sister died, a month ago. There’s not much left out there for him but, aside from his girlfriend’s constant support, there is only one thing that keeps him from hitting rock bottom: racing. Only issue is that he’s not driving to win anymore. Winning simply happens to him when he miscalculates how far he can push the limits. Or how close he can get before choosing, again, to keep going.
.✦ ݁˖ pairing ──── Lando Norris x Fem!OC
.✦ ݁˖ rating ──── explicit
.✦ ݁˖ warnings ──── 18+, character death (implied) and grief, internal conflicts, unresolved mourning, angst, graphic sexual content, descriptive language, swearing, smut, praise and dirty talk, unprotected sex, depictions of messy bodily fluids, power dynamics, possessive and dominant behavior with elements of soft-aggression, slight marking, post-sex tenderness, protective!Lando, illegal street racing, graphic violence (fistfights, blood, injuries etc.), mentions of drinking, smoking, and drug use, references to murder.
.✦ ݁˖ word count ──── 12k
.✦ ݁˖ date ──── Feb. 16, 2026
.✦ ݁˖ a/n ──── This started out as a joke, exactly 20 days ago. I stopped laughing halfway through, and now I’m crying in 284 languages because I can’t believe it’s done. Let me know if you guys want more, because I have tons of ideas for this universe, including additional drivers and racing arcs (hihihi 😈).
PLAYLIST
BANKS, Begging For Thread
DOC RAVEN, My Ride Or Die
MC MAZZIE, Saka Saka Saka
POST MALONE, Wow.
JUICY J, Payback
SICKICK, Infected
TROYE SIVAN, Talk Me Down
And I can’t be running back and forth forever
between grief and high delight.
J.D. Salinger, from Franny and Zoey
📍 Los Angeles, California | 11:04 PM.
“YOU DON’T HAVE to come tonight,” says Lando without looking at her. Freshly out of the shower, he’s facing the dresser, rifling through a half-open drawer.
For almost a month now, the house on E. Kensington Road is quiet. No more people coming over, no more late night dinners in the spatious kitchen, and no more work in the garage. Except for the room he grew up in, everything else remained pretty much untouched. Rather fast, he’s shrunk inward, confined himself to new routines and old habits, because it’s easier to pretend he’s still sixteen and his older sister is just out late. In reality, it’s like everything drained out of the walls and never quite came back ever since Letty died.
Murdered. Lando’s sister was murdered.
Even though time moves in one direction, his mind keeps replaying the memory of the day he looked over her grave from above as if it just happened. His jaw clenches automatically, the unwanted images invading his mind, forcing himself to chase them away as quickly as possible. He has yet to find the perfect formula to make them disappear without coming back, because he cannot afford giving up hope that at one point in his life, perhaps, the fact that he has no family left will not hurt as much. Somewhere deep inside, Lando knows he’s doomed to search for it his whole life though, without succeeding, just like Sisyphus pushing a boulder up a hill, only for it to roll back down just before reaching the top.
Nonetheless, better than the alternative. Giving up would mean admitting defeat. Accepting a reality where his attempts are futile and he’s all alone.
Well, maybe not completely alone.
Raelyn leans against the doorframe, cautiously following his moves, like a lioness waiting to pounce on its prey. Ironically, not to tear him apart, but to protect him from other predators, from the world and, most importantly, from himself.
“I know,” she replies with a silent sigh. “You tell me every time. Besides,” the girl continues, “I wouldn’t let you have all the fun.”
Lando finally reaches for a clean shirt, the fabric dragging smoothly over his skin. The mirror in front of him catches the dark circles under his eyes and the tension carved into his jaw, showcasing a restless anger that never leaves his gaze anymore. It’s not the first time she’s felt so helpless that it’s turned into guilt. She wants to do more for him, way more than she already does because, just like Lando, Raelyn can’t afford to give up on hope that they will get to see better days. For now, she can only be a mere spectator to how he chooses to mourn, hence she notices everything. Especially the demons he fights so hard to keep hidden from the world. And that takes a lot from him. He somehow looks way older than he did a month ago: he’s more rigid and pale, the lines of his body sharper, his eyes hollow, as if their essence was knocked loose and never put back the right way, regardless of how hard she tries to.
In the course of it, neither of them knows when exactly she moved in, but that’s because there was no conversation about it. She stayed over the night after the funeral and didn’t leave again. He never asked her to. Never asked her to stay, either. Somewhere along the way, Raelyn became the glue that’s holding together something already cracked. They slept together through it all, and he let her in during the nights he couldn’t speak, or the nights he had so much to say. It happened gradually, every single day marking a new milestone: a new toothbrush in his bathroom, a make-up bag on the counter, a change of clothes, then another. Eventually, her presence in Lando’s life stopped feeling temporary, but they’re not sure when it became as permanent as it is.
Not that they need a clear answer, anyway. They’ve been dating since high-school, and moving in together would have happened, sooner or later.
He shrugs into his jacket next, dragging his fingers through his hair in order to tame the wild curls, still slightly damp from a shower he took too fast, like he was raicing the water.
“I also know,” the girl adds carefully, “That if I stay here, you’ll push it harder. Just to prove you don’t need anyone watching out for you. That you’ve got it.”
Lando turns at last, one eyebrow arching in her direction. “You think you’re watching out for me?” he asks, eyes going a shade darker as he fixes his gaze on her; she doesn’t feel threatened in the slightest, but there’s something vicious about the way grief sits on him lately, stripping him down to instinct and teeth.
Raelyn swallows, biting the inside of her cheek. “I think someone has to.”
“I watch out for myself, yeah?” he nods once, taking a few steps toward her, until he closes the space between them and she’s backed up against the wall. “For us.” Lando cages her in without touching her yet, bracing his palms on either side of Raelyn’s head. She has to tilt her chin up in order to maintain eye contact, and he’s so close that she can count the moles dusting his cheek and feel the heat rolling off him, a gentle scent of his body wash and clean skin invading her nostrils.
Only weeks ago, his face looked soft in any light, smile lines permanently etched at the corners of his mouth like proof he laughed often and easily. In such short time, joy has become a foreign language, the creases have smoothed out, his expression changing dramatically from innocence to sudden maturity. Sometimes she’s shooting stupid jokes at him on purpose, just to see if she can coax it back, to watch his lips twitch and eyes warm briefly before the weight settles again. It never lasts, but she’s satisfied that she still has this power.
She memorized every square inch of his face and, recently, she had to learn new features that the grief has brought in. Luckily, there are things it hasn’t taken yet, like the fullness of his mouth, even when it’s set in a hard line. Maybe, if she looks long enough, she can remember him back to himself.
“That’s not what I meant,” she says, hands clawing on either side of his jacket, fingers curling in the worn leather while she pulls him closer instead of pushing away.
His jaw flexes. “I know what you meant, and I’m telling you: I don’t need someone hovering like I’m about to fall apart,” Lando shrugs, tilting his head to the side. “I’m fine.”
“Am I hovering, Lando?” she challenges him, noticing a knowing smirk blooming in the corner of his mouth.
One of the many things he likes about her is that she doesn’t flinch. Ever. She cuts through his bullshit like a knife through butter. Puts him in his place without clearly defining the hierarchy of their relationship, if there is one to begin with. As for Rae, she conditioned herself to find meaning in things that are on the other side of happiness, because she understood from an early age that life is more than that. Right now, for instance, is about knowing exactly how close to the edge they are and stepping forward anyway; she can’t risk getting stuck.
“You are,” he replies, matter-of-factly. There is no accusation behind his voice, maybe just a suddle tinge of frustration. “And you don’t have to be, because I don’t need anyone to watch out for me,” Lando insists.
Raelyn is aware that the source of his shortcomings lies largely in the empty rooms, missing voices, and the fact that his entire family has been reduced to a full house of ghosts. Nevertheless, his words sting just as much.
“Not even me?” she whispers, eyes searching his face.
Lando exhales, forehead dropping until it nearly touches hers. “It’s not about you.”
She can feel his heartbeat under her palm when she presses it flat on his chest. “Lan, there’s no one else left here but me.”
His eye narrow, understanding there is no way he can fight the cruel truth. All he needs to do is take a quick look around to realize Raelyn is right, and it’s not that he’d be all alone without her that wrecks him, but the fact that she must know how much pain she can cause him, if that’s what she wanted to. Love means trusting she won’t.
“You push like that,” he teases quietly, lifting his hand to cup the side of her face, “You’re gonna get yourself in trouble.”
She holds his gaze without blinking. “With you?”
Lando shakes his head, eyes closing briefly. In spite of what she’s insinuating, he manages to smile a little and, before she can speak again, he presses his lips on hers, kissing her just like he always does: like he’s starving, with a possessive force that’s able to claim every inch of her mouth.
Raelyn melts into him, her tongue sweeping in to tangle with his. From her cheek, his hand drops to her waist, fingers splaying wide over the soft fabric of her black bodycon dress, then lower, gripping the exposed skin of her thigh. With a silky hum rumbling from his chest, Lando lifts her effortlessly off the floor and pushes her back against the wall behind, pinning her there.
A silent whimper escapes her lips right into his mouth, as needy as ever, dancing in circles on his tongue. Her legs snake his waist instinctively, thighs clamping tight around him, heels digging into the small of his back to wrench him close, then closer, until there is no physical space left. The friction of her core against his hardening cock sends an exciting jolt through him, and he takes the opportunity to savor it, grinding gently to tease both of them. Her arms loop around his neck, fingers burying into his curls, tugging with a desperation that matches his own. Then her hands slide down, nails scraping lightly over his skin until they grip the base of his neck, yanking Lando deeper into the kiss, as if she could simply fuse them together.
The kiss intensifies, turning wild and messy and sloppy. Tongues lick everywhere; hers tracing the seam of his lips before diving back in; his swirling against the roof of her mouth, tasting her greedily. He sucks at her bottom lip next, nipping only to hear her little gasp, then captures her tongue again, drawing her breath into his lungs like it’s the oxygen he can’t live without. His own comes out in ragged bursts, hot on her skin, possessive hold thightening even more, not wanting to give her the slightest occasion to break away.
One arm stays locked on her waist, supporting her weight without strain. The other hand roams lower, fumbling with the button of his jeans, the zipper rasping open in the charged air broken only by their heavy panting. The fabric parts, and he shoves it down enough to free his throbbing cock, the length springing out, already leaking from the tip. It’s embarrassing how quickly she can turn him on, but Lando lets her consume him in every possible way.
With Raelyn, every worry has a STOP button, and the buzz in his veins shifts smoothly back to a primal rhythm they both know so well. Impatiently, he rocks his hips forward, the head of his cock nudging against the soft lace of her panties, seeping her heat through the thin barrier. A groan tears from his throat into her mouth, and she ends up swallowing it with a satisfied moan.
“Fucking hell, Rae,” he speaks against her lips, fingers digging into her thigh to hitch her leg higher.
“You can fall apart, you know,” she begins, contemplatively, “That doesn’t mean you’re broken.”
“I am a little broken,” replies Lando, maybe a bit too quickly.
She arches into him, her body language screaming want with every cell, hips rolling to grind her clit on his length, chasing the sweet friction. In the moment, as her eagerness and impatient whimpers vibrate with him, Lando imagines that all that exists is her, dragging him from the edge of darkness back into the burning flames of life. Thus, in retrospect, it doesn’t matter whether he’s broken or not.
“You’re the same to me,” she exhales heavily, as if to emphasize her point.
Lando almost chokes on his next breath, losing his grip only to lower Rae back to her feet, but he doesn’t break the kiss. His mouth lingers on hers, tongues sliding in a messy dance at the same time his hands slide down her sides. Dexterous fingers hook into the waistband of her panties, peeling them off in one desperate motion, the lace leaving goosebumps all over her hips and thighs before pooling at her ankles. She kicks them aside without breaking contact, and once she’s exposed to him, Lando presses her clumsily into the wall again, the edge of the dresser digging into his hip. He manages to crowd her space, his freed cock bobbing heavy between them, brushing along her inner thigh. Rae’s palms curl around his biceps, fingers digging into the taut muscle there for support, feeling the flex as he repositions himself.
“All this time,” he mumbles impatiently, one hand wrapping around his shaft to guide the swollen head to her entrance, “And I still can’t get enough of you.”
“Promise?” she asks, voice cracking a little on the last syllable.
“Promise,” Lando exhales a shaky breath that fans over her cheek, slowly pushing forward.
Her walls part for him with ease, taking Lando in with a gush of wetness that lets him glide blissfully deep. She has to bite her lip at how good the homecoming feels like, eyes closing shut so she can fully focus on the way he splits her on his length. And the moment he starts moving, her inner muscles begin sucking at his cock like it’s second nature. Their heavy breathing fills the room, joining the guttural grunts that come out of Lando’s throat. The rhythm builds gradually, skin slapping on skin in echoing smacks that has her ass hitting the wall with each drive.
In the heat of it, Lando’s lips find the softness of her neck, trailing open-mouthed kisses along the column, biting lightly at the pulse point that beats wildly under his tongue.
“You really think I don’t need you?” he asks, frenzy evident in his voice. “How can I not? You were made for me, weren’t you?” Lando’s tone is laced with that soft-yet-aggressive edge, one of his hands dropping to her hip again to open her wider, allowing him to plunge deeper. “Fuck. Say yes, I wanna hear you.”
“Yes, baby,” agrees Rae in a high-pitched voice, the words coming out of her mouth like bullets, without being able to stop them. “I’m just scared because I sometimes feel like it’s a matter of time until you slip away” she admits, head falling back against the wall as she rocks her hips to meet him. “Faster. Please,” her voice breaks on the plea, fingers tangling in his curls once again, pulling at them to urge him on.
Processing her affirmation, Lando’s restraint snaps like a revved engine hitting redline. His pace increases with pure need, thrusts turning nearly punishing, hips snapping with a force that shakes her entire body.
“Not gonna happen,” he pants into the crook of her neck, breath breaking erratically against her skin. “With you for the long run, yeah?” his assures her, changing position so one hand braces beside her head, the other gripping her ass to angle her just right, his cock slamming home with every brutal drive.
The girl moans louder, all sounds mixing together into a cacophony that’s ricocheting off the walls. The pleasure is omnipresent, but it exponentially intensifies every time Lando cries out her name. He can’t stay silent even if he wanted to, not as he swells inside her with each thrust, his thick length pulsing, the ridged head dragging along her channel in ecstatic waves that shoot persistently from one body to the other. Her pussy flutters around him, the wetness coating his balls while they slap relentlessly with lewd sounds.
“Yeah,” her voice fades, gasping in time with her legs trembling around his waist. “Shit, I’m so close.”
At this point, Lando’s control is very limited and crumbles along with her failed attempts to speak without moaning. His movements become inconsistent, jaw working hard in order to prolong his own pleasure, while undoubtedly pushing Rae toward hers.
“Good girl, baby,” his voice is utterly wrecked, “Come on then, come on my cock,” he encourages her, the desperate grind of bodies seeking oblivion in each other. “You’re so fucking perfect, let me feel you.”
His thrusts are slowing a little, allowing himself the luxury of watching her face contort in bliss as the orgasm crashes over her. Her pussy spasms in repeated waves that suck at him without stopping, her moans turning into sweet cries that animate the bedroom. Satisfied, he grinds deep, circling his hips to elongate the sensation, feeling her wetness flood around him, coating his length and dripping down her thighs.
Only when she’s riding the peak, body shuddering in Lando’s arms, does he let go. His release hits hard and fast, praising spilling from his lips like a desperate prayer, his cock pulsing as hot spurts fill her to the brim. It’s messier than he expected, cum leaking out around where they’re joined, slicking his balls and inner thighs, the overflow dripping down as he keeps her pinned, with one palm firmly splayed on the wall for leverage and the other holding her steady through the aftershocks.
A few seconds later, he looks down at his girl with a yearning gaze that burns. For some reason, he gets the strange feeling that she’s something that should be out of his reach. Someone he shouldn’t have. Someone he doesn’t deserve. All at once, Lando realizes that her fears aren’t irrational; there were times when even he didn’t recognize himself, and only Rae knows what terrifying thoughts she didn’t share with him, just because she thought it was better not to.
The least he can do now is prove that no matter how many times the world might end around them, she won’t end up losing him.
Lando leans in to press a gentle kiss to her forehead, his lips lingering as he speaks, “You have me, Rae. You’re my ride or die, don’t ever doubt that.”
The testimony is not limited to a simple promise made post-orgasm. Promises can be easily broken. The words carry a lot of weight, coming from Lando. It’s what his sister used to say about having that one person that’s yours only. Someone you can trust with your life, but also someone you would die with in a heartbeat. It means commitment that doesn’t break under pressure, not even when helplessness or fear claws at the edges of common sense, ripping it apart. He grew up watching that devotion shape the way Letty loved and the way she fought for the people she cared about. Treating it like a bravado would mean betrayal, especially knowing that she died believing loyalty was worth any cost. Even life itself.
Rae’s arms are still wrapped tight around Lando’s neck, thighs quivering still as he gently lowers her feet to the floor, supporting her weight until she’s steady enough on her own. Her body slides down his, his softening cock slipping free with a wet noise, more of their combined release smearing between them.
“Shit,” he exhales, “Are we okay?” asks Lando with a chuckle that barely leaves his throat, brushing a stray curl from her face.
For the first time in the past month, Raelyn can see vulnerability in his eyes, not just the endless void. She smiles, answering by rising on her toes to kiss him deeply; a silent declaration that they are more than okay, actually. He’s still in there, a little broken, but still hers.
“I’m coming with,” the girl presses a final kiss to his cheek before padding over to the dresser on unsteady legs to grab a fresh pair of panties.
THEY ROLL OFF Alameda Street an hour later, where the Arts District thins out into warehouse rows and dead-end stretches of chipped asphalt that no one takes responsibility for after midnight. Lando pulls in slowly, allowing the wheels to slide through the sea of people like skates on ice, letting the car announce itself through a dense, metallic purr. That makes him easy recognisable, and the shouts are then quick to follow.
His posture is loose yet nervous in an exciting way; the tone it’s always electric in places like this, and the atmosphere around sets his hands tingling with impatience already. When fast cars gather in one scene and people swarm around them like ants in their own colony, he knows he’s made it home. Not because he inherited someone else’s reputation, but because he grew up in this environment, seeking the thrill like some sort of addict.
The lot is pure chaos: lowriders bouncing on hydraulics; tattooed guys in tank tops chugging beers from glass bottles, foam occasionally spilling onto oil-stained ground because of how wildly they’re gesticulating; girls in ripped shorts climb onto hoods, dancing to the thump of hip-hop blasting from massive subwoofers strapped to truck beds; joints are passed around from hand to hand like basket balls, the skunky haze blending with the acrid bite of exhaust and rubber. This tiny bubble is a world onto itself, laughter punctuated by tons of curse words and jokes with just enough innuendo.
Above it all though, the sound of engines roaring is overwhelming. Lando eases the Skyline into a spot near the fence, killing his with a satisfied grin plastered on his face. The sudden quiet inside the car only amplifies the madness outside, and he can’t help but turn to look at Raelyn.
“Let’s make some money,” he says, leaning over the console to press a quick kiss on her lips.
She unbuckles her seatbelt quickly, pulling him back for more before he even has time to turn in his seat. “You’re enjoying this too much,” she points out soon after in a fake accusatory tone that Lando can’t argue with.
Still, “Don’t say it like it’s a bad thing.”
The night air carries a specific scent that Raelyn had never smelled anywhere else but at street races: sweaty men, spilled alcohol and canned energy drinks, hot metal, and motor oil. Lots of it. From where she stands, the strip stretches out like a vein, a long straight of abandoned roadway flanked by derelict warehouses and graffiti walls. In passing, she sees a guy in a bandana stumble from, most likely, too many shots of tequila, one of his arms slunging around a girl who grinds against him to the beat of the music. Over by a jacked-up Impale, a group passes around a blunt, the ember glowing in the space they share as they hype up a driver revving his turbo.
Lando’s hand finds hers once they weave through the throng, and for a moment she’s sure she can feel what he does every time he comes here: an escape.
They spot their crew somewhere near the improvised starting line. Raelyn sees Suki first, her long, glossy hair catching the light that comes from the street lights while she fiddles with the air filter on her Honda S2000, a bunch of tools scattered at her feet. Alex and George, the only mates left from the long-gone days of high-school, greet them with ear-to-ear smiles, cracking open fresh Monsters and ribbing each other about last week’s bust.
“Four, you late ass!” Suki calls out, straightening with a smile on her face at the same time she’s tilting a little to wipe the grease from her hands on her cargo pants. “What took you so long, dude?”
Lando chuckles, fighting the urge to flip her off as he pulls Rae closer to his side. “My lady,” he replies honestly, turning to look at the girl who’s a second away to go key his car for making her blush in front of their friends.
“Ignore him,” Raelyn chimes in, pinching her boyfriend’s bicep.
“Don’t worry, though,” continues Lando, “I wouldn’t miss watching you eat my dust for anything.”
Suki snorts, tossing a rag at him. “Rae, girl, tell this fool of yours to stop dreamin’. See this?” she says, tapping near the intake. “I retuned the throttle response and leaned out the air-fuel mix to sharpen the pickup. She’s breathing cleaner now, which, in simpler terms, means he’s got no chance against me tonight.”
Raelyn laughs, trying to ease the competitive tension that always simmers below the surface between them. “Play nice, you two. Save the trash talk for the line. And you,” she turns in Lando’s arms fully, throwing her hands around his neck, “You better pay more attention to that mouth, yeah?”
“Or else?” he provokes her, knowing well enough that or else she’s going to shut it for him.
And that’s what she does. Her chest presses against his, Lando’s arm tightening around her waist like an instant response. The kiss is more of a reminder that she can be assertive if the situation calls for it, so he’d better not step on her toes. Especially not when she’s wearing her favorite boots.
Their bickering flows easy after that, but it falters when several heads turn toward the same point of interest: a well-known matte black Dodge Charger that causes bodies to shift and scatter under the rich hum of its engine. Instinctively, Lando’s grasp on Raelyn’s waist tightens, jaw clenching involuntarily; just like that, the illusion of a drama-free night shatters under the sound of Dominic Toretto’s car door slamming shut.
A month ago, he would’ve clocked the big man the same way everyone else around him does, untouchable, above all. Maybe he did love Lando’s sister. Maybe he simply didn’t know how to show up for grief, preferring to do it alone. But nothing can excuse his absence when it mattered most. To Lando, the man that approaches their group now isn’t untouchable anymore. He’s human, just like everybody else, which makes him just as vulnerable. Just as flawed and exposed.
And a coward.
His worn jacket hangs open over his frame, moving with him as he closes the distance with characteristic patience, his heavy boots crunching over scattered gravel and discarded bottle caps. The overhead lights catch along the clean lines of his shaved head and the dark stretch of his T-shirt pulled tight across his frame, giving the impression that he owns the place, confident that no one’s going to stop him.
Whereas people’s eyes are glued to him, Suki’s gaze snaps past Dom, to another car that rolls off. To get better look at it, she hops up onto the hood of her car, shading her eyes against the flicker of the headlights. “Yo, Four,” she calls out, jabbing a finger toward a sleek, blacked-out Plymouth Barracuda, “Is that your sister’s old ride?”
Lando shifts his weight, already angled toward the edge of the crowd, because he would rather drag his girlfriend through it than face Dom, not trusting himself to stand in front of him without losing it. But in a fraction of a fraction, his blood starts boiling in his veins, confusion decorating his face.
“What?” he asks with an uncertain voice, mostly to himself, as his eyes lock onto the Barracuda.
The familiar lines of the body close around his throat like an invisible claw. It is, in fact, Letty’s car. The same one she’d poured her entire soul into, turbocharged and lowered. Relief punches through him and, for the shortest second, he’s as pathetic as imagining that she might step out of it. The next one, reality creeps back in, fueling him with anger so sudden it makes his hands curl into fists around Raelyn’s waist.
The car shouldn’t be here. Matter of fact, it shouldn’t exist anymore.
The raid on the Ortiz house and garage flashes in his mind like polaroid pictures thrown one by one on a table right in front of him: DEA agents swarming during the Braga investigation and badges dangling under floodlights, ripping apart their lives under the guise of justice. It makes him sick to his stomach; there was no justice. Letty’s car had been seized as evidence. Dragged away on a flatbed while she was still alive. After the case wrapped, it vanished into impound, ultimately auctioned off for pennies to some faceless bidder that was supposed to tear it apart for pieces.
Or so he’d thought.
Raelyn notices the change in Lando’s body language instantly; he’s gotten stiff beside her. Cold. First instinct is to cling to his torso, pressing her side against his like a shield, opposed to the storm brewing in his eyes. But everything stopped existing, except the scene in front of them. He can’t do anything else but stare while the mass of bodies shifts apart around the Barracuda, voices — now reduced to murmurs shooting from every direction in disbelief — rippling outward as heads keep turning.
The car looks brand new, glittering in the wash of artificial light, but no one needs to take a second look at it to recognize it’s Letty’s signature. By now, Lando’s face is completely drained of color, his hands ultimately falling at his sides.
Pushed by curiosity, or rather madness, he takes a step forward, but Rae reinforces her hold, just as pale as he is. And rightly so, this is just like seeing a ghost.
“Lan,” she speaks with worry, because she’s already deciphered the look on his face, one that just turned grief into rage. “Did you know about this?” the girl asks, careful to give the question a little room to sit bewteen them. It’s not the answer she’s after, but the pause. A tiny chance for Lando’s anger to stall long enough for him to breathe instead of react.
Still, he shakes his head, locking his jaw with such force that she can see the muscle twitch. “No…” he trails off, anchored in disbelief. “Fuck no. I thought it was gone. Scrapped or some shit,” the voice comes out drenched in sudden betrayal, eyes never leaving the car as it finally rolls to a stop.
Dom’s steps died out at a safe distance, arm crossed over his broad chest. Nothing gets through the mask of control he’s currently displaying, despite the fact that, much like Lando, his blood is currently boiling with rage. It’s Raelyn who catches the flicker in his brooding eyes and how subtly his shoulders square. The realization doesn’t surprise her in the slightest, though. Of course he knew. He must have, but decided to keep his mouth shut, probably figuring Lando would go nuclear on whoever had the balls to claim it. And, when the door swings open, the last piece of puzzle falls into place.
Marco Delano, the last idiot alive Lando would want behind Letty’s wheel. He grew up running the same streets as the Ortiz siblings, and their feud is old as time, a result of crossing lines that can’t be erased, envy and selfishness. Letty trusted him once, but she had a gift of seeing through people’s bullshit.
All his life, Marco wanted everything Lando had: his ability to make himself widely liked, the way he didn’t have to earn a seat at the table because he was born at it, his friends, his cars, even his girlfriend. Years ago, when Raelyn chose Lando, that happened to be his last straw. For a guy with a huge ego it was biblical humiliation, so he’s been silently waiting for the perfect moment to strike back. And now, the guy knows exactly what he’s doing, parading the car like a trophy, bragging in front of his best-friend-turned-lifelong-enemy, daring him to look at it without breaking.
As expected, Lando sees red, and Rae’s arms aren’t nearly enough to hold him back anymore.
“Lando, don’t,” she tries to stop him, but he wrenches free, stalking toward Dom with his fists still clenched at his sides.
Suki slides off the hood, coming to hold Raelyn from behind; a small gesture, designed to remind her that someone’s got her back in case things go terribly south.
“What the fuck is this?” Lando snarls, stopping inches from Dom. He’s shorter than the big man, but the anger makes him tower in the moment, his blue eyes blazing. “That’s why you’re here? You fucking knew and you didn’t say a word?”
“I heard about it, yeah,” says Dom, exhaling through his nose, occasionally glancing at the car he knows so well.
Lando squints. “And you didn’t think to tell me?” his voice is almost conversational now, which somehow makes it worse. “You simply let that piece of shit snatch it up like it was nothing?”
“I was gonna handle it.”
That earns a laugh from the youngest Ortiz, but he’s not amused in the slightest. “Handle it?” he points a finger at Dom’s chest, stopping short of contact, body trembling with the effort to hold back a swing. “Are you fucking serious right now? You were gonna handle my sister’s car like it’s some oil change appointment?”
Across the strip, Manny Cruz, known as Ledger, climbs onto the hood of a rusted Tacoma, holding a megaphone close to his mouth, “Alright, people. Before shit hits the fan, listen up!” the man shouts, his deep voice cracking through the air. “We go racing tonight, pink slips only,” he informs the people who are gatherig closer, already discussing among themselves whom to bet on. “You lose, I keep you title. You win, you take theirs. It’s that simple,” adds Ledger, hopping down and starting to walk through the racers with his palm out, collecting folded titles and money like a landlord collecting rent on the first of the month.
In the meantime, Lando doesn’t take his eyes off Dom. “I’m familiar with the fate of the things you care about,” he barks, clearly referring to his sister’s death. “You don’t get to do that anymore.”
“We’re still on the same team, kid,” says Dom with no inflexion in his voice. “I was gonna win it back. Bring it home.”
“You mean your garage?”
“That was family’s car.”
“My family’s car,” Lando corrects him in a heartbeat. “If you think I’m sitting this out while you play hero for my sake, you’re dead wrong, Toretto. I am going to bring it home, so you better stay out of my way.”
By the time Ledger gets to Marco, the guy leans against his freshly polished car with a smirk on his face. He doesn’t even glance around to check what other racers will compete tonight, because there’s only one he wants to beat. The way he sees it, he’s not gambling a car. Rather, he’s using it as a weapon, wagering on Lando’s weaknesses, on the reckless way he’s been driving since his sister died, and on the unshakeable belief that a broken man makes catastrophic errors the moment it gets personal. Finally beating the Ortiz would put Marco way up there, demonstrating once and for all in front of everybody that the name means absolutely nothing without Letty behind the wheel.
Keeping the same annoying grin intact, Marco stands back after dropping the title into Ledger’s hand, watching his rival turn on Dominic in public outrage, satisfied with the knowledge that he’s already turned family against itself before the engines even start.
“This is your fault,” hisses Lando, directing every ounce of indignation towards the man in front of him.
If the accusation affects him, Dom doesn’t let it show. “You don’t want to do this here, kid.”
“What I want is you out of my way,” Lando repeats, shaking his head. “You have the fucking nerve to show up here and tell me you knew that the scumbag had my car. You,” he almost chokes on the words that seem to pile up outside his mouth, “You have the fucking nerve to show up at all, one month after I buried the last member of my family. Where were you then? And where were you when she was murdered?” he keeps shooting, bullet after bullet striking Dom’s chest. “Where the fuck were you, man? Fixing cars in Panama?”
Although Dom exudes quiet command, a facial muscle twitches under his eye. “I took care of the motherfucker, didn’t I?” he pauses, going stiff at the memory. “Everything I did out there was for her, you know that.”
Lando’s face twists. “Alright then, where’s my sister? Row D, Section 4, East Lost Angeles Cemetery, plot 27,” he answers his own question, the exact location tumbling out like a missile. “You didn’t take care of shit, Dom,” says Lando at last. “You were too late then, and you are too late now, so stop walking around like you’re some sort of Good Samaritan.”
Dom’s jaw clenches, but his voice remains steady once he speaks again, “Like it or not, you’re family, Ortiz, not a stranger. And right now, you’re only untouchable because of what we, your sister and I, did in order to protect you,” he states, not in arrogance but naked truth. Where they live, loyalty is armor, nobody has to be lectured about it.
“How about this?” Lando smiles defiantly, leaning in so he makes sure he’s well heard. “Quit acting like I’m your responsibility. I never was, so you better learn to fuck off.”
“You were Letty’s,” Dom reminds him, a flicker of old pain surfacing behind his words. “And she was mine.”
“Fuck off,” Lando says again, louder, shrugging past the hand Dom extends once more in order to stop him. He pivots, storming through the gawking crowd, intentionally shouldering Marco Delano with brutal force. Marco reels, his laugh ending up choking into a grunt.
“Lando!” Rae yells after him one more time, but her voice is barely audible from a distance. Plus, Lando is too overcome with anger to hear anything other than the sound of his own vengeful thoughts anyway.
Blinded by it, he thrusts his own title into Ledger’s waiting palm. “I’m in,” he snarls decisively.
THERE IS NO room for errors on Alameda Street. This is a driver’s strip that demands speed, split-second decisions, and big balls. For more than half the night, Suki burned with impatience to get behind the wheel, but after the earlier drama, she knows better than to get involved in family blood. Plus, she’d rather not compete at all than to do so against the midfield. Like most racers here, she wants Four. Bullet. Toretto. The big names of street racing that could actually challenge her.
“Couple more things,” Ledger’s voice gets lost in the night as he crosses the street from one side to the other, “Jump the start, you’re out. Crash, you’re out.” He lowers the megaphone, pointing down the stretch of Alameda, where the streetlights flicker like they’re about to go out any minute now. “Drag race, quarter a mile ‘till the third intersection past the cold storage plant. You miss it,” he says, lifting the megaphone for the crowd to finish his sentence, you’re out, the words echo from every possible direction. “First to get back here wins. May the fastest motherfucker win.”
Minutes later, Lando’s jaw flexes in anticipation. He stands at the edge of the fray, his silhouette rigid against the chain-link fence. In order to keep himself from punching the concrete walls, he crossed his arms over his chest, wanting nothing more than to hold himself together. At least until his turn comes.
Raelyn sits nearby, avoiding to shower him in too much attention. That’s not what Lando needs right now. He just needs to know she’s there, which is always the case, and her hand brushing against his arm absent-mindedly is enough to remind him that.
His gaze is locked on the starting line, where Marco’s — Letty’s — Barracuda squats low. The supercharged V8 growls teasingly, minimal tweaks to the body keeping its lines familiar enough to taunt Lando. To add more to it, Marco leans out the window to flash a cocky grin, revving once to let the sound of the engine echo off the warehouses.
“Stupid idiot,” murmurs Lando.
Angel Morales alias Crow is right next to him. He finds himself into a gloss-blue Toyota Supra MK4, an iconic Japanese jewel, known for its aerodynamic design and the 3.0-liter 2JZ inline-six engine. The aftermarket modification is built for a relentless top-end speed that can swallow straights like Alameda whole, reaching performance within 4.6 seconds. The minimal decals give it a discreet yet striking appearance for those with eyes to see, Crow’s tattooed hands tapping nervously on the steering wheel.
Trying to capture as much information as possible, Lando chews on his bottom lip, a habit that Rae has teased him about ever since they met. His white Nissan Skyline GT-R R32 waits in the rotation. He put his blood, sweat, and tears into it, from reinforcing internals beneath the hood to a custom ECU tune sharpening its edge, and an all-wheel-drive system dialed for that perfect late bite of traction that launches without sacrificing the chase for top speed. The interior is stripped bare, designed for no distractions and less weight. It is the closest to perfection he has ever driven, and if he loses control, it won’t be the car’s fault.
Across the strip, Dom leans against his Charger with his arms folded across his chest. For Lando’s sake, he’s not competing tonight either, but that doesn’t mean he’s not prepared for the worst case scenario. Bottom line, they’ll get Letty’s car back at any cost.
The flag girl drops her arms and, for half a heartbeat, everybody holds their breath. One heartbeat later, the entire strip erupts, tires biting the asphalt, itching for it.
Lando shifts his weight nervously, feet planted wide like he’s preparing to brace for impact. He’s heard various voices mentioning earlier that Marco’s got a 500-horsepower Hemi under the hood, lightweight chassis tweaks, and sticky slicks for the quarter-mile. His Skyline is a corner-carver at heart, but in a dead sprint, doubt easily finds a way to gnaw deeper. Losing has never crossed his mind before, but losing here would mean capitulating the last piece of his family he can actually fight for.
Rae’s hand drops to curl around his bicep, squeezing gently.
The Supra edges ahead off the line, its lighter weight and clear-cut launch giving it the jump. Crow shifts gears with precision, the transmission whining through its ratios. Marco reacts, not that easily intimidated. The Barracuda surges, its massive torque overwhelming the Supra’s initial lead. By the 100-foot mark, the Plymouth’s nose draws even, exhaust spitting flames from tunes headers. Marco flirts with the throttle, keeping the rear end planted, the car’s wide stance devouring the strip. It pushes Crow to fight back, turbos screaming as he mashes the pedal, but ultimately, there’s no real competition here: Marco knows what he’s got his hands on, suspensions compressing under the G-forces.
He’s toying with it, Lando thinks, a chill racing down his spine. His stomach drops, figuring that Marco Delano came to perform and it’s just a matter of time until he does so, the nitrous bottle untouched, saving the blue flame for later.
Consistent with popular predictions, the Barracuda crosses the line first, clocks flashing a blistering 10.2-second quarter-mile. At last, Crow’s Supra coasts defeated to a stop, the man slamming the wheel in frustration.
Marco’s eyes find Lando’s once he steps out to cheers and backslaps. His smirk widens into challenge, rubbing salt into a wound that has been open for years. He gestures lazily toward his car, as if to say, yours is next.
The night drags on, two more races unfolding in rotation, shadowy figures in souped-up Civics and a Mustang trading pink slips in furious bursts of acceleration. Eventually, the lineup converges and Marco slinks to the starting line again.
Lando feels the inexorable draw that Raelyn makes sure to keep under control, eyes locking onto his with unshakable faith, piercing his fog of doubt. She closes the small space left between them, bringing a hand to cradle his jaw, her thumb brushing the firm edge packed with tension. On her toes, she leans in to meet his lips in a tender kiss, an anchoring gesture amid the chaos. It deepens quickly, cherry gloss combining with the salt of his skin. Lando’s palm settles at her waist and just as she eases back to give him a smile, he decides that he won’t lose anything ever again.
“Smoke him,” she says with finality.
Lando nods, the ghost of a smile cracking his facade while walking backwards towards his car. He drops into the bucket seat, strapping himself in. The twin-turbo inline-six rumbles to life once he twists the key, its vibrations coursing through the chassis and settling into his core. He blips the throttle once, then again, only to feel all the systems awakening, so he can finally roll it nose-to-nose with Marco’s at the starting line. Refusing to look anywhere else but ahead, Lando’s kuckles pale from how hard he’s gripping the steering wheel. In record time, all his senses refine, causing him to hear everything, from the noise outside the car to his own heartbeat.
The flags raise again, and the moment they slash downward, each second seems to pass in slow motion.
ONE. The launch detonates in a haze of fury, and it isn’t clean. Lando slams the clutch, floors the throttle, the car rushing with impatience. The tires rebel against him, spinning wildly on the oil-slicked strip scarred around from the earlier battles. A thick smoke chokes the air with the sharp tang of scorched rubber, the car fishtailing as the ATTESA system fights to redistribute torque across all four wheels in the shortest time.
Marco’s Barracuda rockets uninhibited ahead, its engine propelling the heavy muscle car forward in a flash. Lando’s eyes widen in the cockpit, irritation spreading like ivy in his chest.
“Not now,” he spits under his breath, the rearview mirror framing Marco’s vanishing taillights.
TWO. The Skyline manages to scrape for purchase, the rear settling as the turbos begin to spool with a mounting whine that vibrates through the roll cage, but the deficit looms. Marco’s eyes shrink in the distance, and Lando has to close his briefly, sweat prickling his brow. His right foot modulates the throttle, drowning the crowd’s enthusiasm, the entire universe suddenly condensing into a singular point. He bangs into second gear, the transmission engaging with a mechanical snap; he’s gone by now, vision tunneling, any trace of fear and doubt remaining deeply rooted in the past.
THREE. Marco’s car cleaves the air, its broad hood dominating the lane. There are short bursts of flame spitting from the exhaust with every upshift, as if emphasizing his desperate need to choke Lando. But in Lando’s current state, he’s impossible to reach. It looks like he is able to urge the car onward through sheer will, even though his fingers ache around the wheel. The instant inertia hurls him back into the seat with a jolt of G-forces that compresses his spine. He’s not even blinking anymore as he calculates the chasm, twenty feet and closing, agonizingly slow. He pre-shifts into third, a surge of heat taking over any other kind of emotion that might surface.
FOUR. His rival toys with a nitrous feint, azure flickers dancing unused from the tailpipes, baiting the rhythm. Lando’s frustration crests, pulse hammering in his temple as he counters with the subtle pedal work, the Skyline’s sleeker profile and lighter curb weight beginning to assert itself on the straightaway. The speedometer blurs past 80 mph, wind shrieking through the vents like a banshee.
“Fucking fight me!” he wills the machine, the night sky blurring into a cinematic rush outside the windows.
FIVE. The Skyline creeps alongside between one breath and the next, with tires singing at 100 mph over the grooved pavement. Midway down the strip, Marco muscles into third, the V8’s torque cresting in a thunderous peak which Lando forsees, his foot dancing on the pedals to sustain boost without spin.
SIX. That’s when Marco finally commits to the nitrous, a violent hiss unleashing the oxide in a blaze of compressed outrage. Flames erupt in blue hues from the Barracuda’s rear, rocketing it ahead and widening the breach once more. Lando responds promptly, triggering his own system, the bottle venting with a sizzle that feeds the turbos pure fire.
SEVEN. The cars draw closer in a cacophony of noise, clouds of exhaust fumes merging into a thick veil beneath the lights. Lando’s instinct peaks there, encouraging him to tuck into the Barracuda’s slipstream, managing to steal efficiency from the turbulent air. Then darts left to claim clean flow. Marco fumbles a shift, the heavier chassis balking under the strain; Lando seizes it, holding redline before slamming fourth, the gear meshing perfectly thanks to his experience on the streets and, mostly, his sister’s driving lessons.
EIGHT. The 450-horsepower turbos are at full cry, the strip appearing like it’s going to vortex into oblivion. The Barracuda tries to counter aggressively, swerving to steal the lane, but Lando anticipates, easing off the throttle at the same time the tires object with a high-pitched keen yet adhering to the tacky surface.
NINE. Marco’s car weavers, its nitrous ebbing as the early rush melts away. Lando’s aero savvy and unflinching boost control propels him past, the front bumper inching clear.
TEN. Reality crashes back in the moment Lando’s Skyline arrives at the line first, its brakes flaring crimson-red against the night.
He spends the next ten seconds clutching the steering wheel tightly, pure ecstasy washing over him, while the cheers outside are so loud that they seem like they’re gonna break the windows. When he finally steps out of the car, he does it on steady legs and dilated pupils from the adrenaline haze, searching the sea of faces for hers.
After everything, Raelyn launches herself at him, legs wrapping around his waist as her arms lock behind his neck for support. She crashes her lips against his, tongues tangling in a kiss that has the power to kill the chaos around them. Lando’s hands grip her thighs, pulling her impossibly closer. They don’t break apart, not even when hurrahs and whistles erupt louder from the sidelines.
Rae’s fingers thread through his damp hair, tugging at it just to make him groan into her mouth. “That’s my racer boy!” she smiles against his lips, nipping at his bottom one.
It only makes him kiss her harder, one hand sliding up her back, in that same possessive way he does, no matter who’s watching.
Humbled once again, Marco lumbers to a stop in arrears. The moment shatters as the familiar voice infiltrates through, fully dripped in venom.
“Enjoy it while it lasts, Ortiz,” he says, fumbling in his pocket and hurling the keys on the ground, where they skitter across the gravel like discarded trash. “And let me tell you,” he adds, a devilish smirk blooming on his face, “Letty’s ghost in that ‘Cuda…” the boy trails off, pursing his lips before continuing, “Got me jerking off so fast.”
The entire area hushes in an instant, and the only sound in Lando’s ears is the sound of his blood rushing to his cheeks. He gently puts Rae back on her feet, then dives headfirst at Marco with an animalistic roar, slamming into him like a freight train. They crash to the asphalt in a tangle of limbs, the impact jarring Lando’s teeth as concrete bites into his elbows. He rears back and drives his fist into Marco’s face multiple times, knuckles splitting open on the ridge of his cheekbone, blood blooming hot from the gash. As a result, Marco’s head snaps sideways, a spray of bright red arcing under the neon glow of the street lamps. He doesn’t go down easy, though. Twisting like a viper, he hooks a leg around Lando’s and bucks hard, flipping them so he’s straddling Lando’s chest.
People are surging closer, gasps of surprise quickly turning to chanting: “Fight! Fight!” a woman’s voice shrieks in excitement, fists pumping the air, while others shout encouragements.
Marco’s weight pins Lando, his bloodied grin turning demonic as he cocks back and slams a punch into Lando’s jaw, the crack echoing like a gunshot and causing instant fireworks exploding behind Lando’s eyelids. Pain flares underneath his now bruised skin, copper flooding his mouth from a busted lip. It only makes him angrier, and he bolts upright, headbutting Marco square in the nose with a wet crunch, cartilage giving way under the force. More blood gushes from Marco’s nostrils, dripping onto Lando’s shirt as they roll again, grappling in a frenzy of years of repressed wrath.
Lando’s rage unleashes in every swing, his boot stomping down on Marco’s thigh while he claws at his shirt, tearing fabric and skin alike. Marco retaliates with a vicious uppercut to Lando’s ribs, the blow landing with a thud that steals his breath, cracking bone maybe, sending agony lancing through his side.
“That all you got, motherfucker?” Marco spits, blood flecking his teeth, but Lando’s already on him, kneeing his gut and following with a new wave of punches.
“Shut up!”
One glancing off Marco’s ear.
Another smashing into his eye, swelling it shut in seconds.
Then another, sending his head flying backwards.
They trade blows in the dirt, no more words, just grunts and the meaty sound of impact. Unmasked, Lando’s violence overflows through his fists like a dam breaking. It awakens painful memories for Dom who, after the initial shock, finally barrels in like a force of nature, his massive arms wrapping around Lando’s torso from behind.
“Enough, kid!” he thunders, muscles straining as he hauls him off Marco, prying them apart with sheer power despite Lando’s wild trashing.
“Get the fuck off me!” Lando protests. “I’m gonna fucking kill him!”
“That’s enough!” the man repeats, louder, throwing Lando at the side like he weights nothing, pointing at him before turning back to Delano. He pulls his unstable body back on his feet by the jacket, only one hand clawing at the bloody material. “You’re done here,” says Dom, infernal eyes piercing into his soul. “Walk away before I put your head into the asphalt.”
Lando looks like he could lunge again at any second, his chest heaving with ragged breaths. His eyes burn while darting around, scanning the ground. Every fiber of him buzzes with the leftover punch of adrenaline, like the storm hasn’t finished raging yet. Once he finds the keys to the Barracuda, he bends to snatch them, the metal biting cold into his skin, making him fist his palm around it until it hurts.
It only takes a glance at Raelyn, and she’s immediately by his side, worry etching fine lines around her eyes.
“Take my car and go home,” says Lando with an evident rasp in his voice.
Clenching her jaw, Rae doesn’t argue this time. She just nods, chewing on the inside of her cheek, refusing to look around and make eye contact with another person. As for Lando, he doesn’t wait for more. Sliding into Letty’s car, the engine starts purring smoothly beneath him, and he peels out, leaving the lot behind in a cloud of dust.
The city blurs past in shadowed alleys, but there’s no final destination this time. He presses the pedal harder, racing the wind, hoping the speed will do its thing and numb the ache. Unfortunately, even the fastest driver can’t outrun his own thoughts. He spends hours trying to, but when the sky finally hints at the pale edge of dawn, Lando turns onto the quiet suburban street, the driveway materializing in front of him in sweet familiarity. He kills the engine, allowing himself to just exist in his sister’s space without breaking all over again. Sitting there, he’s gripping the wheel until his hands cramp and the skin around his knuckles breaks anew, painting them in a brighter shade of red.
Another half hour stretches into what feels like eternity before he forces himself out.
Inside, the house is still, even if he already knows Rae is probably awake. Their bedroom door stands ajar, a silver of light coming from the lamp in the corner of the room, spilling into the hallway. She looks up from the edge of the bed as he enters, her eyes scanning Lando instinctively: his lip is busted open, bruises are glowing in faint purple shades along his jaw, and his clothes are streaked with blood, dirt and sweat. It hurts her to even look at the crimson crust at the corner of his eye, a shallow cut that Marco’s ring left behind.
Her heart shrinks to a painful knot in her chest, remembering that it’s only been a month of this. A whole month of holding him together while pieces of him, without a doubt, fractured. It’s physically impossible not to question herself, if this is what their life will look like from now on — a vicious circle of mourning the things that could’ve been.
It would be very easy for her to kick and scream, to demand why he keeps throwing himself into the fire, but she understands the why. For this reason, the what and the how long until no longer make any sense. Instead, she rises silently to brush past Lando in the narrow hallway. Her shoulder grazes his arm in a ghost of a contact that sends a jolt through both of them. But they both ignore it.
Just as serene, she rummages for the first aid kit in the bathroom, the plastic clattering against the sink. She allows her hands to shake for a few seconds before she steels them and by the time she’s back, Lando has stripped off his shirt, the dirty fabric discarded in a heap on the floor along with his jeans and jacket, where smoke clings to them still. He perches on the edge of the bed, the same spot where he found her, his bare torso marked with fresh welts and old scars from races that ended badly.
Although it’s the early morning, Raelyn switches the flip on in order to fully see him, the new wave of light flooding over the taut lines of his muscles, highlighting the tension coiled there.
“Move over,” she points at a chair, sounding detached of it all. “I don’t want all that mess in bed.”
Lando doesn’t complain. Sliding off the mattress, he settles into the chair by the window, watching Raelyn setting the kit on the windowsill with a small tap. He can feel the chemical scent the moment she uncaps the antiseptic, already anticipating its sting.
Stillness settles over them for the umpteenth time.
Raelyn starts with his face, tilting his chin up, vehemently refusing to meet his eyes. Despite the fact that she feels his gaze imploring her to look at him, even just once, she cannot do so without being overcome by the urge to punch him herself for the show he put on in front of everybody. She dabs the cotton swab at his busted lip first, the alcohol stinging enough to make him hiss through clenched teeth. At least for now, Rae considers that’s enough of a punishment. However, she doesn’t soften her touch.
Lando keeps his eyes on her, tracking the precise movement of her hands. It’s not the first time she’s patching him up, but this time around, the tension that hums between them is heated with something more brittle. Her breath comes shallow while she wipes away the dried blood from his chin, his skin turning warm under her touch.
The girl moves to his knuckles after that, a flash of surprise crossing her expression. The cuts are deeper than she expected, the flesh around torn and swollen. Skillful, a quality acquired as a result of the many times he had to fix Lando, Rae soaks a fresh cloth in saline, pressing it firmly against the wounds. The liquid trickles down his fingers, pink-tanged, dripping onto the towel she’s laid across his lap. Lando keeps wincing occasionally, his jaw working like he’s stopping himself every time he’s about to say something — to point out how cold and clinical she is, perhaps. But he chooses to swallow his words, thinking now is not the time.
Raelyn wishes she were stronger than that. No matter how hard she tries, she can’t stop her mind from racing at the speed of light. Powerless, she replays the fight over and over again, the anger in Lando’s eyes catching her attention every time. Marco shouldn’t be able to get under his skin anymore. Yet somehow he did, and he still won, in the end. At least on a mental level, considering that Lando is now battling new demons.
For all that, she can’t let Lando know how much it actually bothers her. If she lets emotion out, she’ll end up sobbing into his chest. Or worse: begging him to stop chasing ghosts. She can’t ask that of him. Not yet, anyway. So she stays cold, her touch efficient as she applies antibiotic ointment, the cool gel melting immediately on his heated skin.
Careful not to disturb her, Lando repositions himself, the chair creaking underneath. For the first time since he sat down, their eyes finally meet, gentle gaze colliding with the strain she’s hiding in hers. He itches to reach out, to pull her close and sit in silence together, just like they did times on end for the past month. Yet, he’s powerless too.
After she’s done with his eye, Raelyn sticks on a pink butterfly bandage, sealing the ring cut in a way that makes the corners of her mouth lift for the shortest moment.
“Come here?” Lando dares to speak, but the girl steps back instead.
She keeps avoiding him, focusing on packing away the supplies, her fingers lingering on the lid, like she can delay the inevitable confrontation forever.
Lando shifts again, rubbing a hand over his freshly bandaged knuckles. He leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees, making an effort to bridge the chasm with levity in order to defuse the tension that surrounds them. “Did you see the other guy? He’s gonna be picking his teeth out of the gutter for a week.”
She freezes with her back to him, shoulders tensing more, ironically. His attempt of a joke lands flat, and Raelyn can’t acknowledge it even with a scoff. All she can think of is how utterly helpless she feels, not being able to absorb the rage that’s become his second skin. Without having much of a choice, frigidity settles in her even though she wants to bridge the gap, to meet him in this fractured life where any win still comes with a loss. Where entourages of gearheads and dealers orbit them like satelits in a doomed orbit.
Part of her aches to wrap him up and carry the weight of his vengeance so he doesn’t have to, while the other part screams at her to collapse. To let the tears finally break through and drown them both in the reality of it all.
“I saw him,” she replies in the end, eyes fixing on the floor where his boots lie kicked off, all caked in dirt. “And it makes me sick that you think this is funny. Any of it.”
Lando’s grin fades, his slightly healthier hand flexing. “Rae, come on. I’m trying to get to you, that’s all. It was bullshit, yeah, but I handled it. We’re good,” his words sound somewhat desperate, still clinging to the adrenaline.
The girl whips around, feeling her nails digging deeper into her palms. “You came home bleeding, Lando. Again. And I’m the one cleaning it up. Again,” her voice cracks on the last word, not loud but intense enough to give him chills. “How can we be good?”
He sits up straighter, wincing once more. “What do you want me to say, hm?” Lando’s eyes search hers, pleading.
Raelyn sinks onto the bed across from him, the space between them fogging with accusations that are waiting in line to be fired like arrows at a moving target. Her hands tremble in her lap, and she clenches them again, fighting the urge to reach out or push away entirely.
Paradoxically, both versions feel wrong.
“I know you miss her,” she whispers, not trusting her voice. “I miss her, too. But can’t you see this life is eating us alive?”
“Baby, hey,” his tone softens into insistence. The confusion on his face morphs into concern as he stands fully, his chest rising with a deeper breath. “What’s wrong?” asks Lando, figuring that whatever it is, it is much more than he thinks. He steps closer so he can drop to his knees in front of her, head lifting to see her tired eyes.
“What’s wrong,” she echoes thoughtfully, close to snapping while gesturing vaguely toward the window, toward the night that swallowed them whole hours ago. “What you did out there,” the girl continues, closing her eyes briefly, “That’s not… I haven’t seen you like that. Ever.”
Lando’s expression hardens, a flicker of defensiveness crossing his beaten up features. “Are you seriously worried about Delano? That piece of shit deserved it,” his words come out as if they don’t need justifying.
She analyzes his face, gaze sliding across the cuts, then the shadows beneath his eyes. “I’m not,” Raelyn shakes her head, “I’m worried about you.”
Next time he speaks, it seems like a reflex he’s clung to for weeks. “You shouldn’t. I’m fine.”
“Clearly,” her laugh is short. “You keep saying that. For a month now, you keep saying that. But I think this,” she cups his cheek in her palm, tracing her thumb across his busted lip, “This is far from fine. You kept it all inside, Lando, and now it’s going to come out in ways I’m not sure I can fix.”
“Fix me, you mean?” his eyes lock onto hers, demanding answers.
They’ve always been equals in their mess, no one fixing the other, just surviving the crash together. Now it feels more like an attack, impaling into the nerve of his grief, the same way Marco’s taunts still burn under his skin. He knows he shouldn’t turn everything into personal matters, but honor is the only thing he has left. He failed to be a protector when it mattered the most. It’s only fair he does everything in his power to be one from now on.
“No,” she dismisses his inquiry with a decisive tone, meeting his upward gaze even though her heart hammers like pistons overheating in her chest. “Ironically enough, it’s not just about you.”
Lando shakes his head, his jaw clenching. “Then what is it? You’ve been looking at me like I’m a thicking bomb since I walked in here,” his voice rises a notch, taking even himself by surprise.
Raelyn exhales, shifting her gaze back at the window. “I’m trying to save what we have left. Because I feel like you’re lying, and I’m not sure when we started doing that, but I don’t like it,” she admits.
“I don’t lie,” he affirms with finality.
“Keeping things for yourself or not saying the whole truth is just as bad,” the girl concedes, cracking open a fear that she’s tried to keep buried for the past couple of weeks: that without complete honesty, they’re just two people careening toward another crash. “You’re not fine, Lando. Downplaying it makes me believe you don’t trust me anymore.”
His eyes soften, hands peacefully landing on each side of her thighs. “Baby, I’m sorry if I scared you, alright? I’m sorry,” he repeats, blue eyes contemplating her face.
“If Dom wouldn’t have pulled you off him…” her words taper off, heavy with the horror of what she witnessed from the sidelines.
“You heard what he said, yeah? I couldn’t let that slide, you know how he is,” Lando frowns, disbelief sharpening his tone.
“That’s not an excuse,” counters Raelyn. “I saw the look on your face, Lando. I believed you when you said you’d kill him.”
Life as she used to know it flashes before her eyes in an instant: stolen moments in the garage, Lando’s high-pitched laugh, the way he’d pull her close after a close call, whispering promises. Suddenly, a jigsaw of moments is flooding her mind, refusing to stay in order: high-school Lando in her bedroom, scribbling schematics for his dream car in the margins of a notebook; late-night drives around the city; take-out dinners on the couch, her legs thrown over his, arguing about a silly TV show; his first race; his first race win; their first kiss when they were only 17. It’d be fascinating to observe how easily it all gets shadowed by a mistake he keeps repeating. If only it didn’t hurt so bad for making her question the man she’s shared her time with up until this point.
Lando’s expression pales under the bruises. “I—” he tries, but the protest dies, replaced by a haunted stare. In the moment, he can’t even admit that he said it just because of the adrenaline and anger. Hours later, he still feels the same way.
“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” Raelyn finally breaks, tears welling up. She wipes at her face with the back of her hand once they spill over, tracing hot paths down her cheeks.
“Why are you even going there, Raelyn?” the full name slips out like a slap, and she freezes above him, her body going stiff at the unfamiliar formality. “You know everything is fucked up, and it’s going to stay that way, regardless of whether you interfere or not.”
“No, it doesn’t have to,” the girl insists, her hands moving to cover his.
His posture slumps, the exhaustion etching deeper lines around his mouth. “Look around, baby. You said it,” Lando reminds her, “There’s no one else here but us. We’ve got nothing else but each other, so let’s not lose ourselves too. Because if that happens, Rae… if I lose you…”
In his head, Lando knows that losing her isn’t an abstract thought. Of course it crossed his mind before, perhaps more often than he would like to admit. He’s already memorized the sound of grief. It’s like a hollow echo with no response, but Rae is the last place he feels safe, the last person who can pull him back. Without her, he has no reason to slow down. No reason to step off the gas at the last second.
Most people are terrified of pain, but that doesn’t scare him. It’s the certainty that he wouldn’t survive what he would become afterward that keeps him frozen in fear.
“Maybe that’s the problem,” she jumps on his unfinished sentence.
“What do you mean?” asks Lando, confusion knitting his brows, one hand reaching out to tuck a stray hair behind her ear.
“This place,” explains Rae, cautious. “What if we leve for a while?” she asks, gauging his reaction, her heart pounding in the silence that follows.
Lando doesn’t dismiss it outright, but he does pause. “What do you mean?” he repeats a little softer. “Leave where?”
Running her hand gently through his tousled curls, Raelyn takes a small breath before asking, “How do you feel about Monaco?”
someone to hold me down ³ ⸻ lando norris x reader .
featuring lando norris , love island au (post villa) , established relationship
word count 9.3k
author’s note SURPRISE BITCH … i bet you thought you’d seen the last of me !! it’s been a minute and i am so sorry, honestly this whole law school thing got HANDS !!! but it’s valentine’s day weekend aka theeeee holiday of love and we got ln1 on track this week and so i simply HAVE to deliver !!! this is the only epilogue you will get for now, sorry — as much as i love these divas (and i DO) i have so many other projects i’m excited about and i hope you’ll stick around for them <3 and of course you can always come chat in my inbox, i’ve been loving writing out little hcs about love island landoyn for you all and will keep doing it as long as you ask me questions ! requests are always open too. as always, let me know what you think, title is once again from came here for love by sigala !!
You rap on the door in your familiar rhythm, one long tap, then two short.
He’s probably asleep, and you didn’t text before you came over, but you keep going — once, twice, three times. Because even if it’s past midnight and you’re both technically responsible adults with regular sleep schedules, you know Lando will always answer the door when it’s you that’s knocking.
“Hold on — shit,” you can hear him mumble from inside, half-asleep and fumbling through his flat, which hopefully unlike yours does not currently resemble an Olympic-size swimming pool. “M’coming, okay, just —”
The door swings open, and his expression eases as soon as he sees you shivering in your pajamas on his welcome mat, carrying the world’s soggiest overnight bag. “Hi,” he breathes, expression melting into the ridiculously soft smile that he always seems to reserve just for you.
“Hi,” you sniffle, wiping at your eyes with the back of your hand.
He blinks, face shifting into concern almost immediately. “C’mere,” he mumbles, tugging you over the threshold and into a tight hug despite the fact that you’re basically a human sponge, already soaking through his t-shirt and dripping all over his fancy hardwood floors. “What happened? Are you okay?”
“Mrs. Davies’ washing machine exploded,” you mumble into his chest. He’s still warm from sleep, and you let yourself breathe in his clean, boyish scent, relaxing into his embrace. “Directly through my ceiling. My bedroom basically became Niagara Falls on top of me.”
“Baby,” he hums, rubbing your back soothingly. “That’s terrible.”
You pull back just slightly, giving him a once-over, and he barely manages to school his grin into an appropriately concerned expression in time. “Lando. Why do you sound so happy about my housing crisis?”
“I’m not happy,” he protests, corners of his mouth twitching upwards. “I’m devastated. Really.”
You raise an eyebrow, poking him on the cheek. “Tell that to your dimples.”
“Oi. They’re empathetic dimples. I’m being very emotionally supportive, actually,” he insists, stepping back for just long enough to toe the door shut behind you and push your overnight bag away from the growing puddle beneath you. “C’mon, let’s get you warm.”
Twenty minutes later, you’re clean and considerably less waterlogged, padding back into the living room with a cloud of shower steam trailing behind you. You’ve got a whole drawer of clothes in Lando’s dresser already, but in need of comfort, you’d reached past all your own neatly folded things for his Quadrant hoodie — one from an ancient drop, gone soft from a hundred washes and smelling exactly like him.
Lando’s already on the sofa when you emerge, twin mugs steaming away on the coffee table in front of him. He pats the cushion beside him and you curl up automatically, leaning into him and tucking your feet under his thigh the way you always do. “Right,” he says, tugging you closer, arm slung over your shoulders. “Tell me everything.”
So you do. You tell him about waking up to a drip on your nose and then what sounded like a freight train crashing into your flat, the sudsy water pouring through the plaster and drenching everything you own, Mrs. Davies staring down at you through the hole in your ceiling, hysterical because her washer had been making a funny noise for weeks and the landlord hadn’t bothered to fix it.
“And then, I swear to god, Lan, I called him and he said I should just ‘mop it up’ and he’d ‘come take a look when he has time,’” you say, air-quoting so emphatically that your tea threatens to slosh over the rim of your mug. “I was literally standing in at least an inch of water, my flat looks like Atlantis, and he wanted me to mop it up.”
“Are you joking?” Lando mutters, jaw tightening. “You need to call him back right now and — actually, no, give me his number, I’ll call him.”
“Babe.”
“No, I’m serious,” he insists, raking a hand through his curls. “That’s completely unacceptable. You could’ve been hurt and your flat’s unlivable and he’s acting like you’ve spilled a glass of water or something. Give me your phone, I’ll tell him exactly what I think of his shit customer service —”
You place a hand on his chest to stop him, affecting a breathy damsel-in-distress tone. “My hero.”
“Thanks,” he beams, and you just manage to hold in a snort before his eyes narrow, registering your tone. “You’re taking the piss, aren’t you?”
“Little bit.”
He huffs, but he’s grinning, thumb rubbing slow circles on your shoulder. “I really would’ve fought him for you. Just so you know.”
“I know,” you say softly, pressing a soft kiss to his jaw before you sag against him with a sigh. “I know it’s stupid, but I really loved that flat.”
His arm tightens around your shoulders, like he’s trying to hold you together. “I know, baby.”
“I mean, it was shit,” you say, because if you don’t complain you might start crying again. “It was kind of falling apart, and the radiators made that horrible clanking noise in the middle of the night, and my neighbors were always stealing my packages, but it was mine.” You shift on the cushions, taking a sip of tea before you rest your head against his shoulder. “I moved in there before all this. Before the villa and the tabloids and the people filming me on the Tube. It was the one piece left of my normal life, and now it’s just gone.”
Lando hums softly against your hair, fingers tracing invisible patterns on your arm. “What d’you think you’re going to do?”
You sigh, cradling your mug in your hands. “Dunno. Have to break my lease and find somewhere new, I guess. Or the building manager said they’d put me up in a hotel, but it’s going to take months to fix, and that sounds sort of grim, staying in some sad anonymous room that whole time. I mean, can you imagine? The tabloids will have a field day with that: Love Island star homeless, living out of Premier Inn.”
“Or you could just move in.”
Your laugh spills out before you can stop it. “Very funny.”
“I’m not joking,” Lando shrugs, slow and easy and unbothered, and you nearly choke on your tea.
“Think about it,” he continues, like he’s warming to his own idea. “You’re here practically all the time anyway. You’ve got a drawer, you’ve got a toothbrush, your makeup is slowly taking over my bathroom counters. My Netflix algorithm keeps recommending trashy reality shows because you put them on in the background while you work from home. My mum called last week and asked to talk to you before she even said hello to me because she just, like, assumed you’d be here. Logistically, it’s kind of stupid you don’t live here already.”
Your face scrunches, even as your heart swoops in your chest. “Lan, that’s a really big step.”
“It is,” he agrees immediately, looking at you like he’s been standing at the top of that particular hypothetical staircase for months, just waiting for you to hand him a box. “And I want to take it with you.”
“What if I’m annoying to live with?” you mumble, fiddling with the cuffs of his hoodie. “Things are so good with us. What if I move in and you, like, wake up one day and realize you hate living with me and it ruins everything?”
He snorts, squeezing your shoulder. “Baby. We basically already lived together in a villa with eight other people and a gajillion cameras, remember? There’s no secret nightmare version of you that’s going to surprise me. I know you take ages to get ready and leave about seventeen hair ties in every room you go in. I know you hog the covers so my feet are always cold. I know you cry at sappy commercials when you’re stressed out. I know all of it, and I still want you here.” He pauses, and when he speaks again his voice is softer. “I always want you here. Why not make it official?”
You look at him — hair a mess, t-shirt wrinkled, but eyes soft — and something familiar flickers in your chest, the same warmth you’ve felt ever since the first time he smiled at you under the Mallorcan sun.
“You don’t have to decide right now,” he says gently, catching your hand and lacing your fingers together. “Just… think about it, at least.”
So you do. You think about sleeping in a bed that smells like someone else’s perfume, about tabloid cameras tracking you traipsing in and out of a dodgy hotel every night, about another year of a new place that has you in it and not him. You think about mint tea in a big mug every morning, about the way his doorman calls you Mrs. Norris and you’ve stopped bothering to correct him, about how nothing has ever felt more like home than sitting wrapped up in a blanket with this stupid perfect boy in his stupid perfect flat.
“Okay,” you say, trying to keep your voice level even though you can feel the smile threatening to split your face in half. “Thought about it. I’m in.”
He blinks, as if he expected at least three more rounds of overthinking out of you, and then his entire face lights up like you’ve just told him Christmas came early. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you confirm, and then he’s surging forward to kiss you, thumbs smoothing over your cheekbones. Both of you are smiling too hard for it to be any good, but neither of you seem to care.
“Right, okay,” he says when you break apart, tone all business even through his megawatt grin. “I’ll move my streaming setup to the spare room so you’ll have space for your desk, and I saw these organizers for the drawers so we can split them all in half, and I’ve been thinking we could turn the corner by the window into a little reading nook for you, because the light’s really good there in the afternoons, and —”
“Lando Norris,” you interrupt delightedly, poking him in the side, “how long have you been plotting to get me to move in with you?”
He pauses and rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “Plotting is a strong word. But I may have some bigger bookshelves saved in my Amazon cart already.”
You shake your head, laughing. “Unbelievable.”
“What?” he shrugs, eyes crinkling at the corners from the force of his smile. “I like to be prepared. Knew you’d move in eventually.”
“Oh, did you now?” you say, grinning back despite yourself.
“Yup,” he replies, popping the p. “You’re obsessed with me.”
You grab the pillow behind you, swinging it playfully at his shoulder. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”
“I’m lucky,” he corrects, leaning over and pressing a kiss to your damp hair. “Full stop.”
As it turns out, moving is not a huge romantic gesture; it’s really more like a thousand tiny inconveniences dressed up as one big, life-altering decision.
The whole thing happens in a week, mostly by necessity — your ceiling’s crumbling more by the day, and you can’t camp out at Lando’s indefinitely without the rest of your things. So you throw yourself into it with the slightly deranged energy of someone who has no Plan B: insurance paperwork and lease negotiations and daily trips back to the wreckage of your old life, hoping the state of the flat hasn’t gotten worse since your last visit and getting disappointed when it inevitably has.
Lando’s right beside you every day, rolling up his sleeves and getting stuck in without you even asking him to. Cataloguing takes ages — every piece of furniture, every appliance, every sad waterlogged item in your entire flat itemized and coded into a spreadsheet for the benefit of some anonymous insurance adjuster. He does the heavy lifting without complaint, hauling trash bag after trash bag of items down to the dumpster while you take pictures of your water-stained bed frame and your laptop, damaged beyond repair. After your landlord dodges your calls for the third day in a row, he insists on coming with you to the meeting you’ve set up, even though you tell him at least seven times that you can handle it yourself.
“I’m just coming for emotional support,” he shrugs, lacing up his trainers, but he practically drags you along the entire walk to the leasing office, hand tight around yours.
When you get there, your landlord — a ruddy-faced man named Keith who’s legitimately never responded to an email within 72 hours — is already sitting at the table, looking deeply inconvenienced by having to actually do his job. He starts in on a spiel about how if you try to leave early, the procedures say that you’ll owe two months’ penalty and forfeit your security deposit, and you’re gearing up for ninety minutes of back-and-forth when Lando leans forward in his chair.
“Sorry,” he says, smiling with the sort of preternatural calm that you’ve only seen once, standing in between you and Carlos on the villa lawn. “Are these the same procedures that told you to ignore a tenant’s calls for days while she had to sleep across town because her flat’s not structurally sound? We just wanted to clarify before we make a complaint to her MP.”
Keith releases you from the lease within the hour. Lando holds the door for you on the way out, waving goodbye to him like they’ve just had a lovely chat.
“That,” you say, the second the door swings shut behind you and you’re back on the pavement, “was genuinely the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”
The transformation is instantaneous. The steely, unshakeable man who just stared down your landlord without breaking a sweat goes boyishly pink from his neck to the tips of his ears, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “Stop it. I barely did anything.”
“I’m serious, Lan,” you grin. “He looked like he was going to cry.”
“Well, I didn’t like the way he was talking to you,” he mumbles, ducking his head bashfully. “He was being a prick.”
“A massive prick,” you agree, looping your arm through his. “And you were very sexy about it. My big scary boyfriend, taking on the establishment. Keith didn’t stand a chance.”
He finally looks at you, a sheepish, lopsided grin breaking across his face like he can’t quite help it, and he knocks his shoulder into yours as you round the corner. “Right, well, your big scary boyfriend needs a scone before we go back to the flat,” he says, steering you towards the bakery he loves on the end of your street. “That was genuinely very stressful. Defending your honor really takes it out of a man.”
On the last day you can call yourself a tenant, you drag yourself out of Lando’s bed at a frankly ungodly hour to pick up the moving van at a dodgy garage in Islington. By the time you’ve gotten back to your flat and hauled the first round of flattened boxes up the stairs, the sun’s barely up but your boyfriend is already there, stationed in the kitchen with packing supplies and a massive tea in hand.
“Hi,” he says, holding the tea out to you. “Where should I start?”
Something loosens in your chest at the sight of him — not just that he’s here, but that he’s here first, like he set an alarm specifically so you wouldn’t have to do the hard parts of today alone. “You didn’t have to come this early,” you say, even though you’re so grateful he did that your voice wobbles a little on the last word.
He shrugs easily, already pulling open the first cupboard, but you can tell he’s pleased. “Couldn’t sleep once you left. Figured I might as well be productive about it.”
Lando’s good at packing, but he’s better at making the terrible bits bearable. He stays in the kitchen for hours, wrapping your plates and utensils and teacups carefully in packing paper, labeling each box with his horribly messy handwriting. He’s got music blaring from his phone, the playlist you’ve been curating together for months, one of those Spotify blend things that you did after the villa that’s since ballooned into four hundred songs that make no sense together unless you’re the two people who added them. You watch him taping up boxes, singing along off-key to something you put on there as a joke somewhere around your six-month anniversary, and for a moment, it doesn’t feel like you’re taking apart your life — it just feels like hanging out with your favorite person. Which, you suppose, is kind of the whole point.
“Keep or bin?” he asks you from the kitchen, holding up a handpainted glass that reads It’s Wine O’Clock in neon pink block letters.
“Gift from Gem, it’s gotta stay,” you reply, barely even looking up from where you’re sorting throw pillows into piles of salvageable and completely and totally ruined.
“Right, back of the cabinet it is and we pull it out when her and George come round,” he says, wrapping it up with a flourish. “Kitchen’s officially done, then. Want me to help in here?”
You exhale, picking your way through the ruins of the living room until you reach him, pressing a lingering kiss to the corner of his mouth. “That would be perfect, babe, thanks. I’m about to pack up the books in my room, but you could start with the console table over there?”
“‘Course,” he says affably, beaming down at you. “Whatever you need.”
His helpful energy lasts about seventeen seconds. “Oh my god,” he blurts from behind you while you stuff the wrecked pillows into a trash bag. “What the hell is this?”
When you turn, you see him holding a ceramic frog, about eight inches tall in a deeply unfortunate shade of chartreuse, with bulging eyes and a wide, unhinged grin that makes it look like it’s just heard a secret it’s very excited to tell. One of its front legs is extended outward in a kind of jaunty wave, and someone — you genuinely cannot remember if it was you or one of your girls after a bottle of the good prosecco from Waitrose — has balanced a tiny pair of novelty sunglasses on its face, which have stayed there ever since.
“Oh,” you beam. “That’s Gerald.”
“You’ve named him?” Lando says incredulously, holding it at arm’s length like it’s going to come alive and bite him.
“Of course I have,” you say fondly. “He’s family. Been with me for ages. He was a housewarming gift.”
“From who? Someone who hates you?”
“Stop it,” you say, scandalized. “You’ll hurt his feelings.”
He shakes his head, eyes wide. “Look at him. He’s haunted. I think his eyes are following me.” He tilts the frog left, then right, then holds it up next to his own face for comparison. “See? He’s looking at me right now. He’s planning something.”
“Planning for his new home,” you say sweetly, batting your eyelashes. “I thought he would look nice on the windowsill in your living room.”
“There’s not unlimited room in the flat,” he tries, but you know if you pout even the tiniest bit he’ll cave, and he knows it too. “Fine,” he sighs, wrapping Gerald carefully in bubble wrap with the resignation of a man who knows when he’s lost. “But when he comes alive at 3 AM and starts whispering to us in our sleep, I want it on record that I tried to warn you.”
“Noted,” you say, keeping your voice as neutral as possible, because if you laugh right now he will never let it go. You only let yourself smile when you head into the bedroom to start on the last of the shelves. Most of the books survived: the shelf was high up enough that the water didn’t reach, and you pull them down one by one, checking each spine and allowing yourself a small sigh of relief when you find each one dry.
Then your fingers close around something tucked behind the books and everything goes sideways.
It’s the photo album your mum put together for you when you first moved to London, thick cream pages and a linen cover that used to be a deep blue and has now faded to the shade of a summer sky. You think, at first, that it’s fine, like everything else on the shelf, too high for the water to touch. But the album was wedged against the wall, and the wall was wet, and when you open the cover you can see immediately that the album is not fine at all. The pages are soaked, fusing together in thick, pulpy clumps. You peel apart one page as carefully as you can, and a photo of you and your nan at the seaside comes away in two pieces, the image smeared beyond recognition.
You’re distantly aware that you’ve sunk down to the carpet, knees pressed into the damp. Carefully, stupidly hopeful, you try the next page, and your secondary school graduation photo peels apart with a wet, sickening tear, falling to pieces in your hands like tissue paper. You blink rapidly, staring at the ceiling and willing yourself to hold it together, because you’ve been so good all week — so practical, so adult about all of this — and you are not going to fall apart over a photo album on the last day. But your hands are shaking, and your eyes are burning, and you can feel everything you’ve held back over the week rising up in your chest like a tide.
“Baby, I’m starting to get genuinely concerned about your taste. Gerald was the first red flag but I cannot believe you actually bought and own a leopard print lava — hey,” Lando says, voice shifting on a dime into something panicked as the offending lamp falls out of his grasp in the doorway. He plops down on the wet rug with you without a second of hesitation. “Hey, hey, hey, what happened? You alright?”
“I’m okay,” you manage after a deep, shaky breath, which is so obviously not true that you almost laugh through the tears swimming up to your waterline. “This isn’t, though.”
“Your pictures,” he says, heartbreakingly soft, fingers skimming across the wet paper. “Baby. I’m so sorry.”
“No, it’s okay,” you lie, throat tight, voice smaller than you mean it to be. “It’s fine. It’s stupid, I know it’s just stuff.”
“It’s not just stuff,” he interrupts firmly, wrapping his arm around you, hand steady on your waist. “It’s your life. It’s okay to be upset.”
He tucks you against his chest and presses a kiss to your hair, and the safety of it makes something in you give way. You cry in the ugly, shuddering way you’ve been holding back all week, shoulders heaving, face buried in the soft cotton of his t-shirt. He doesn’t tell you it’s okay or rush you through it, he just sits in your sadness with you, one hand rubbing slow, soothing circles on your back while the other cradles your head against his chest.
“We can try to get some of these restored,” he says softly once your breathing has evened out and your sobs have quieted into slow hiccups. “There are people who do that. And even if we can’t fix them, you should keep them. There’s plenty of room.”
You sniffle. “Okay,” you say wetly, and he squeezes you just a little tighter before he lets you go. When you emerge from the bathroom after you’ve splashed your face with cold water, you find him in the living room, wrapping the album carefully in a towel. You watch as he carries it like that out to the van himself, tucked under his arm like it’s precious cargo, and you love him so fiercely in that moment that it makes your chest ache.
By the time you’ve emptied the last drawer and taped up the last box and peeled the last sad Command strip off the wall, it doesn’t really look like your flat anymore. It looks like a shell of your old life. The light is streaming through the window in that bright, angled way that always made the living room look a bit nicer than it actually was, catching the wet warping of the hardwood floors and the marks on the walls where your pictures used to hang.
You stand there and take it in, remembering the years here: years of figuring out who you were when no one was watching, of learning to be alone and not be lonely, of burning dinner and working late and drinking wine with your girls and crying on the bathroom floor and getting a call from a reality television producer that would change your whole life. You became who you are in this flat, and now you’re about to close the door on it for the last time. It’s strange how a place can still hold so much of you, even after you’ve emptied it out.
“You alright?” Lando says gently, propping the box on his hip as he hovers in the doorway.
You swallow through the lump in your throat. “Yeah. Just — it’s the end of something, you know?”
He sets the box down on top of the last pile, reaching out and intertwining his fingers with yours. “End of one thing, but the start of another, yeah?”
You wipe your eyes with the back of your free hand, smiling despite yourself, because it’s true. Closing one door, opening a window — the cliché would feel insufferable if you weren’t so happy about it. “When did you get so wise?”
“Must be your influence,” he says, dropping a kiss to your temple. “I was fully an idiot before I met you.”
A laugh hiccups out of you, watery and surprised, and this is the thing about Lando that nobody else seems to understand — not the producers, not the tabloids, not the fans who think they know your relationship from a highlight reel of its most dramatic moments. He always knows when to be soft and when to be silly, and more importantly, he knows that sometimes you need both at the exact same time.
He grins as soon as he hears your laughter, like making you happy was his goal for the day and he’s just gotten physical proof of achieving it. “C’mon,” he says, hoisting a box under his arm. “Let’s go home.”
The last few boxes barely fit in the boot, wedged between a laundry basket and a trash bag full of shoes Lando tried and failed to get you to downsize. You’re hip-checking the door shut for the third time, leaning your whole body weight against it and waiting for the telltale click, when you spot them: two girls standing across the street, their phones angled too purposefully to be subtle. Your stomach does its usual uneasy flip; after a year, you’re getting used to it, but you’ll never be entirely comfortable with the idea of people filming you living your normal life.
Lando, on the other hand, handles it with the practiced ease of someone who’s had much more time in the public eye to build up his emotional calluses. “Alright?” he calls out cheerfully to them, like he’s greeting friends at the pub and not strangers documenting his Saturday afternoon for Twitter. “D’you want a photo?”
One of the girls gasps and goes red, nudging her friend, and they practically sprint across the road. Lando takes a selfie with each of them, asks their names, and listens to a full five minutes of gushing about how the two of you are their favorite Love Island couple ever while you wave shyly from behind the van and pretend to rearrange boxes that don’t have anywhere to move.
They leave eventually, buzzing, and you finally let yourself exhale. “That was nice,” Lando says, looking deeply pleased with himself as he shuts the trunk you’ve been struggling with in under ten seconds.
“It’s been a year since our season aired,” you sigh, pulling out the keys and sliding into the driver’s seat, because your boyfriend has been permanently regulated to the passenger princess position after a deeply traumatizing incident involving a roundabout, a bollard, and what he still insists was a misleading road marking. “When is this all going to die down?”
Lando settles in beside you, kicking his feet up onto the dashboard and reclining the seat before you’ve even pulled away from the curb. “When you stop being so fit and universally beloved,” he teases, poking your cheek. “So, never.”
“Yeah, yeah,” you grumble, rolling your eyes, but there’s a smile on your face as you pull onto the road and he queues up the music.
You’re about half an hour into the drive, stuck in the kind of midday traffic that makes you question every life choice that led to you moving from west to east London, when Lando shoots bolt upright in the passenger seat. “Oh, you’re going to love this,” he announces, with a tone that suggests you will absolutely not love whatever is about to come out of his mouth. “We’re on Deuxmoi.”
“We are not,” you groan.
“We are,” he replies, shoulders scrunching as he flashes you his phone screen. All you catch is a blur of text and a photo that’s unmistakably the two of you in front of your old building. “Think those girls might have been recording us.” He clears his throat, reading in a dramatic voice: “Spotted: Love Island couple packing boxes into a van - are they moving in together?”
“Wow, those gossip accounts don’t miss a trick, do they,” you reply dryly, switching lanes.
“There’s a whole thread, actually,” he says with barely contained glee. For some reason, he adores the ridiculous rumors that people make up about the two of you. “Oh, someone’s saying you’re pregnant because they saw you in the kids section at Zara and you looked glowy.” He looks up, splaying a hand over his chest in faux-betrayal. “Baby. Why didn’t you tell me I was becoming a dad?”
You bite back a smile, eyes on the road. “Must’ve slipped my mind. Been a bit busy, with my ceiling exploding and everything.”
“That explains the crying,” he says, nodding solemnly, but his eyes sparkle with mischief. “Those pregnancy hormones.”
“I will leave you on the side of the road,” you snort, but the laughter is bubbling out of you before you can stop it.
He reaches across the center console, squeezing your thigh. “And deprive your fake child of a loving father?” he says dramatically. “Cruel.”
You shake your head, but you’re grinning, the entire earlier encounter distant as you merge onto the highway. It’s the thing he’s best at, taking the stuff that makes your skin crawl and making it small, silly, something you can laugh at together from the safety of the driver’s seat. The world outside can say whatever it wants. In here, it’s just the two of you; the sun is starting to peek through the clouds, and the playlist is shuffling into something soft and perfect, and Lando’s hand rests warmly on your thigh, and you think absentmindedly that closing one chapter doesn’t feel so scary when you like the next page this much.
Unpacking is significantly easier than packing, in large part because Lando basically lets you gut the place. Your mugs replace his, since his were all mismatched, hideously ugly freebies from various video sponsors. The teabags move from the pantry to a cute container you’d dragged along with you. The gaming headsets get banished from the living room to the spare room with only minimal pouting on his end. You’d expected more of a fight, but he mostly just watches you rearrange his flat with the soft, lovesick expression he gets sometimes when he thinks you aren’t looking, like he’d let you throw out every single thing he owns if it means you’ll really stay.
You’re picking through a drawer of kitchen utensils, trying to figure out why he owns seven near-identical spatulas, when your phone buzzes on the counter. “It’s Lily,” you say, leaning against the counter as you type. “Wants to know how the move is going.”
Lando peers up from the floor, surrounded by the wood slats of your brand-new, bigger bookshelves. “Tell her we’re crushing it and that I’m currently making IKEA my bitch.”
“Yeah,” you snort, snapping a photo and sending it back to your friend. “That’s why you’ve been stuck on step three for forty-five minutes.”
“Oi,” he defends, wadding up a ball of bubble wrap and lobbing it playfully at you. “You try reading instructions in Swedish.”
Lily texts back almost immediately, a laugh react on the photo, a string of crying emojis and then a longer message — Oscar’s booked a surprise weekend away for the two of them, but he’s being neurotic about the itinerary, making sure everything is perfect. Spontaneity isn’t exactly his strong suit but I love him anyway, she adds.
Your eyes widen, stomach flipping as you read. “Hey, Lan?” you say carefully, eyes catching on the way his tongue pokes at the corner of his mouth as he tries to force two pieces together. “Lily just said Oscar’s taking her to the Cotswolds this weekend and he’s being, quote, ‘sooo stressy’ about the plans.”
Lando stiffens just slightly, pointedly not looking at you. “Sounds nice,” he says, voice pitching up the same way it always does when you’re about to catch him in a fib. “Fun. Good for them.”
You grin, delighted. Over the past year, you’ve had the distinct pleasure of discovering that your boyfriend is the world’s worst secret keeper. He blurted out every single one of your Christmas gifts in advance because he was too excited for you to open them. He spoiled a movie you’d been dying to see thirteen minutes in and then tried to lie his way back out of it, face going endearingly red the second he realized his mistake. He’d planned an elaborate surprise party for your birthday and then confessed the entire thing because you asked him if he wanted to grab dessert after dinner and he thought you’d figured the entire plan out. He’s a vault with no lock, a safe with the door hanging precariously off the hinges. “You know something.”
“I don’t know anything,” he says quickly, shaking his head, and the agonized expression on his face would be genuinely upsetting if it didn’t amuse you so much. “I famously know nothing. I’m stupid. Look at me. I can’t even build this bookshelf.”
You make your way around the counter, fixing him with a look he can’t avoid. “Lando. Is Oscar proposing this weekend?”
“No,” he mumbles, lips pressing together and cheeks going tomato-red, and you know you’ve got him.
“Try again.”
“Okay, fine, yes,” he bursts out, body sagging with relief like the confession has been physically extracted from him. “He’s doing it on the trip, but you cannot tell Lily, please, Osc’s been planning everything out for weeks and if she finds out —”
“My lips are sealed,” you wave your hand through the air dismissively, beaming. “Oh my god, I can’t believe they’re getting engaged. This is so exciting.”
“He’s absolutely going to kill me for telling you,” he mumbles, burying his face in his hands. “He was already mad you found out about the ring.”
You nudge his knee comfortingly with your foot. “I maintain that was Oscar’s fault for making you come with him to pick it out. He knows you’re constitutionally incapable of keeping things from me.”
“I kept it from you,” he mutters, pouting. “For a bit.”
You snort. “Babe. You kept it from me for approximately eight hours. You went that morning and I heard about it by dinner. Let’s not pretend you’re super-spy material.”
He groans, scrubbing a hand down his face, but there’s a grin peeking through, the excited conspiratorial one he gets whenever he’s involved in something he really shouldn’t be. “I know I shouldn’t say anything else, but the whole plan is perfect,” he admits. “She’s going to love it.”
You can’t help but mirror him, grinning in return at the thrill of having a shared secret with the person you love most. “I have no doubt.”
He glances at you worriedly. “She doesn’t suspect anything, does she?”
You re-read her message, eyebrows furrowing. “I don’t think so?” you say, shaking your head as you turn back to the boxes. “It seems like she thinks he’s just getting in a strop over the plans. But girls have a sixth sense about this stuff, you know.”
There’s a beat of silence. “Really?” Lando says, and if you were paying more attention you might clock how it’s almost too casual.
“Yeah,” you reply airily instead, pocketing your phone as you start unpacking your coffee mugs. “You boys think you’re being so subtle and then all of a sudden you’re asking questions about our ring size and whether we want to get our nails done this weekend. It’s totally transparent. We always know eventually.”
“Right,” he says, voice slightly strangled. “You always know.”
“Relax,” you soothe, tearing through a piece of packing paper. “It’ll be fine. Any longer and she’d probably figure it out, but I think Oscar’s going to get in right under the wire.”
Lando’s suddenly become very interested in the Allen wrench, fiddling the little piece of metal between his fingers. “And how long would it be before she figured it out? Hypothetically. In case he doesn’t do it this weekend, I mean.”
You consider the question for a moment as you unwrap. “Dunno. Depends on the girl, I think. But the longer you sit on it, the more obvious it gets.”
“That — yeah. That makes sense,” he says, nodding with a frantic sort of energy. “Good to know.”
Your heart sinks, because he clearly still feels guilty for spilling the secret. The look on his face is almost queasy, knee bouncing nervously as he screws one board to another. But before you can reassure him anymore, your phone buzzes again in your pocket, another text from Lily about the trip, and the thought dissolves before you have time to really consider it.
By the time evening rolls around, the flat looks marginally less like an overstuffed storage unit and more like a place where two people might plausibly live. There are still boxes practically stacked to the ceiling, bubble wrap stuck to the bottoms of your socks, and the sofa is buried underneath a mountain of packing paper, but you’ve finally managed to unearth a solid patch of floor in the living room just as Lando’s keys turn in the lock.
“Honey, I’m home,” he announces, grinning ridiculously at you. His arms are full of plastic bags, the smell of Chinese food wafting in behind him as he kicks the door shut behind him.
“Thank god, I’m starving,” you say, scrambling to the kitchen to help him with the bags. As he unloads them onto the counter, you peer into one, practically overflowing with several containers. “Wow. Properly wining and dining me, aren’t you, Norris?”
He bumps his hip against yours, pressing warm into your side. “Only the best for my girl. You get the table cleared off?”
You raise your eyebrows. “Does it look like I got the table cleared off?”
He surveys the damage that is your living room, smile tugging at his heart-shaped mouth. “Fair point. Floor picnic it is.”
You carry the containers to the tiny area between the boxes, arranging them with careful precision: chow fun and rice, spring rolls and sweet and sour chicken, laid out like a five-star spread instead of takeaway from the shop down the block. At the last minute, you light the one candle you’d managed to find in your boxes, and the flickering light makes everything glow soft and golden.
“This actually looks proper cute,” Lando says softly, settling cross-legged as he hands you a plate.
You poke him with a chopstick. “‘Course it does. I’m very domestic.”
He piles noodles onto his plate, raising an eyebrow at you. “Okay, calm down, Nigella. You literally nearly burned this place down making eggs the first time you slept over.”
“That was the stove’s fault,” you say primly, and it only takes a second before the two of you burst into giggles. He takes the opportunity while your guard is lowered to spear a piece of chicken directly off your plate.
“You absolute mooch, get your own,” you gasp theatrically. “The container is right in front of you.”
Somehow his chewing just looks smug. “Tastes better when it’s yours,” he says, mouth full.
You narrow your eyes, and then dart forward to swipe one of his spring rolls, popping it in your mouth and grinning triumphantly.
“You’re a thief, you are,” he accuses, but his eyes are bright and warm. “Can’t believe I’m living with a hardened criminal.”
You shake your head as you swallow. “First of all, you started it, and second of all, not a thief,” you correct. “That’s just tax.”
“There’s a tax for living with me?” he deadpans, grinning.
“Oh yeah. One spring roll per day, minimum,” you toss back. “Should’ve read the fine print, Norris. You’re stuck with me now.”
“I’ve created a monster,” he sighs, but the way he’s looking at you — soft and fond, smile glowing in the candlelight — makes you feel like he wouldn’t have it any other way.
You eat knees pressed together, trading containers back and forth the way you always do; a year in, you’re long past the point of actually staying on your own plates despite the near-constant banter about it. After a bit of food, your flagging energy’s revived, and you keep picking at the containers long after you’re full while Lando starts enthusiastically telling you about the woman in line at the Chinese place who recognized him and asked if you were as nice in person as you seemed on telly, until he pauses mid-sentence with a sheepish expression.
“Shit. Almost forgot,” he grins, fishing a tiny, painstakingly wrapped parcel out of his pocket and tossing it to you. “Housewarming gift.”
You drop your chopsticks just in time to catch it, turning it over in your fingers. “You bought me a present for moving into your flat?”
“Our flat,” he corrects automatically as you slice neatly through the tape with your nail.
Inside, tucked into tissue paper he’s definitely stolen from one of your Sephora orders, is a familiar silver key — your key to his flat, which he’s somehow managed to swipe from you in the chaos of the move. But when you look closer, there’s something new, too. A tiny enamel charm dangles off the keyring, a little house with hearts for windows.
“Lan,” you breathe out, chest going stupidly, embarrassingly tight.
He takes your hand, flipping the keychain over, and there’s two engraved sets of coordinates on the back. “It’s the villa and here,” he says softly, almost shy. “Where we started and where we are now. I just — I dunno, I just wanted you to have something that said it was always going to be this. Like, maybe we took the long way round about it, but —” he huffs out a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Think part of me always knew, even back then, that this was always where we’d end up.”
Your vision blurs a little, eyes stinging as your thumb traces over the tiny stamped numbers. Something in your throat feels too thick to speak, to force out anything that won’t sound completely and utterly wrecked, so you just stare down at the key in your palm like it’s the most priceless gift you’ve ever received.
“Too cheesy?” your boyfriend asks, wincing.
“Cheesiest thing I’ve ever seen,” you say finally, voice cracking somewhere around the middle of the sentence.
Relief loosens his features, a hopeful little smile lighting up his face. “You like it?”
“I love it,” you correct, because it doesn’t feel big enough otherwise, doesn’t capture even a fraction of the emotion you’re feeling. “I love you.”
His whole face goes gooey at that, and before you can say anything else he’s reaching for you, hands settling on your waist as he hauls you into his lap. The momentum makes your knee catch against the edge of the takeaway containers, sending them spilling across the floor and your sweatpants.
“Lan!” you try to sound scandalized as a spring roll bounces off your foot and goes skittering behind one of the towers of boxes. “The rug.”
“Don’t care,” he shrugs, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to your neck, seemingly completely unbothered by the chow fun staining his joggers. “We can buy a new one. I’ll buy every rug in London if it means I get to hold you right now.”
You giggle, fingers twisting into his curls. “Seems financially irresponsible.”
“You’re worth it,” he mumbles contentedly, breath warm against your skin.
Maybe he’s right about all of this being inevitable, you think as he peppers kisses over every inch of you he can reach. Maybe from the moment he smiled at you that first day, this is where you were bound to end up — on the floor of a half-unpacked flat, covered in sweet and sour sauce and completely, disgustingly happy.
Getting ready for bed together isn’t new, exactly. You’ve slept over enough times over the past year that you have your side of the bed and he has his, and your skincare routine spills familiarly over approximately three-quarters of the bathroom counter while his solitary face wash makes peace with occupying one sad corner. But there’s something surreal and thrilling about the permanency of it this time: your toothbrush making a home next to his in the holder, your pajamas tucked neatly in a drawer, no overnight bag in sight.
You’re washing your face as Lando brushes his teeth beside you, shoulders practically pressed together and elbows jostling for space like he’s incapable of being far away from you now that you’re here for good. He meets your eyes in the mirror, saying something around his toothbrush, which mostly just comes out as a string of garbled syllables and toothpaste foam.
“Did you actually think that was going to work?” you say, laughing as you pat your skin dry.
He ducks his head, spitting into the sink. “Wow. Thought my girlfriend was supposed to understand me better than anyone else,” he sighs faux-solemnly, and dodges away grinning when you swat at him with your washcloth. “I said, I finished the bookshelf.”
“You did not.”
“I did,” he says smugly, hooking his chin over your shoulder, arms snaking around your waist. “While you were in the shower. Go look.”
“I would,” you hum, leaning back into the familiar warmth of him. “But unfortunately, this really clingy guy is koala-bearing me right now, and I can’t possibly make my way to the living room.”
He nuzzles his face against your neck, completely unbothered by the sarcasm. “Not my fault you’re comfortable.”
You sigh fondly, one hand curling around his forearm. “I’ll inspect your handiwork tomorrow, yeah?” you say, fingers tracing lightly over his skin. “If it hasn’t fallen apart by then.”
“Zero faith in me,” he scoffs, and like clockwork there’s a small clatter from the vicinity of the living room. His eyes meet yours in the mirror, chagrined. “I’ll fix it tomorrow.”
“Great,” you agree cheerfully, uncapping your moisturizer and dabbing it over your cheeks. “Oh, actually, I meant to ask you earlier, what’s the fastest way to get to Chelsea from here? I’m supposed to be having brunch with the girls tomorrow morning because Gem’s in town, but I realized I don’t know how long it’ll take from our flat.”
Your boyfriend goes very, very still behind you, and when you twist around to look at him he’s steadfastly refusing to meet your eyes, face struck with an expression you can’t quite parse.
“You okay?” you say, eyebrows knitting together.
He clears his throat, arms tightening slightly around you so you’re pressed tighter against him, chest to chest. “You — you called it our flat.”
You tilt your head, studying his face. “Well, yeah? It is our flat. What, have you got buyer’s remorse or something? Because we spent the entire day unpacking my stuff, so it’s a little too late to go back.”
“No,” he interrupts, finally gazing down at you, flush creeping up his neck. “No, nothing like that, obviously, just — say it again?”
You blink. “Our flat?”
“Fuck,” he breathes, those watercolor eyes you love so much flashing and then darkening. The flush deepens, spreads to the tips of his ears, and you’re starting to get it now, the improbable pieces all coming together into a finished puzzle.
“Lando Norris,” you say delightedly, setting your moisturizer down on the counter behind you. “Are you getting turned on by me calling this our flat?”
His ears go even pinker, eyes tracking over you in a way that makes your skin prickle. “Maybe.”
“Maybe?” You’re grinning now, high off the power of this information. “That’s what does it for you? Got a roommate fantasy?”
“It’s not a fantasy, it’s just —” he half-grumbles, though his hands are already sliding from your waist to your hips like they’ve got a mind of their own. “I dunno, I guess when you say it, it feels real.”
“Boxes unpacked,” you say gently, hand sliding up his bare chest, thumb grazing over his cheek. “Lease broken. It’s pretty real, babe.”
He swallows, and when he speaks again his voice has dropped into a register that makes something flip warm and liquid in the pit of your stomach. “Yeah, well, it’s pretty fucking hot when you say it.”
“Our flat,” you repeat, slowly and deliberately, and watch his gaze fall intently to your mouth.
He makes a noise that sounds like it’s been punched out of him, and then his lips are on yours, hungry, almost feral in a way that steals the breath from your lungs. His hands tighten on your hips before he lifts you onto the counter in one fluid motion. You absolutely knock over your moisturizer and your butt is half in the sink and the back of your head bumps against the mirror and you can’t even be bothered to care, because your boyfriend is kissing you like he’ll die if he stops. You sigh happily, tangling your fingers into his curls, and when you slot your tongue against his, he tastes like mint toothpaste and the rest of your life.
“I’m going to go to brunch from our flat,” you breathe when you break apart for air, just to watch his pupils blow wider. To be honest, it’s starting to work a little bit for you too. “And then I’m going to come home to our flat. And I’m going to sleep in our bed.”
A wrecked, desperate little sound erupts from somewhere in the back of his throat that makes heat flood through your entire body, and then you’re kissing again with a kind of urgency you didn’t even know was possible as he presses ever closer to you, crowding himself between your thighs. You hook your legs around his waist on instinct, ankles locking at the small of his back, and he groans, hips rutting into yours.
“Bedroom,” he mumbles against your mouth, hands sliding under your shirt, mapping over the bare skin of your waist. “Can I —”
“Say it right,” you manage, barely pulling back enough to get the words out.
He blinks, eyes glassy and face flushed, before the understanding breaks over his face like the first rays of sunlight in the morning. “Our bedroom,” he corrects, voice rough and low and aching, and hearing him this desperate is actually fucking dizzying. “Can I take you to our bedroom?”
“Yeah,” you breathe, grinning, and the word is barely out of your mouth before he’s lifting you up like it’s nothing, your arms looped around his neck and his hands braced firmly beneath your thighs as he connects your lips again. He kisses you all the way out, only stopping to hiss out a curse when his shoulder clips one of the wardrobe boxes scattered around the room.
“Smooth,” you breathe as he deposits you on the mattress.
He follows you down, grinning, and his smile is so bright, so happy that it’s almost hard to look directly at him. “Can you let me be romantic, please?” he retorts, nose brushing yours. “God forbid I want to snog my girl while I take her to bed.”
“Our bed,” you correct one last time, reaching up to push his curls off his forehead, and his expression shifts again, the happiness and the heat falling away into something raw, laid bare and achingly tender.
He turns his head, pressing a kiss to the inside of your wrist. “Our life,” he whispers against your skin, and it ignites something white-hot in your chest. You pull him down fiercely to you, and then there’s no more talking for a long, long time.
Much later, you lie in a tangled heap of limbs and kicked-off sheets, half-draped across him with your cheek pressed against his chest and his fingers carding through your hair. The flat is quiet now, just the hum of the city outside and the steady rhythm of his breathing.
“I can hear your heartbeat,” you murmur, mouthing a lazy kiss against his collarbone.
“Tends to happen when you’ve got your ear on someone’s chest,” he replies without missing a beat, not even opening his eyes. You pinch his side, and he yelps, tugging you closer.
“Shut up, I’m having a moment,” you say sleepily, and you feel his laughter more than hear it, the slow rumble bubbling up from his very soul.
“Good one, I hope.”
You shift just enough to look at him, propping your chin on his chest. The glow of the streetlights paints him in soft gold, illuminating the tips of his eyelashes, the slope of his nose, and you think (not for the first time, but maybe the strongest) that you’d freeze this exact moment and live in it forever if the universe allowed it.
“The best,” you say, voice unexpectedly soft, and tuck your head back into the crook of his neck. From this vantage point, your keychain glints from the bedside table, warm outside light catching brilliantly on the enamel. You stare at it for a moment, let your eyes trace over the coordinates until it feels like your heart is two sizes too big for your chest, chafing at your ribs.
“Hey,” Lando whispers, somewhere above you in the darkness. When you tilt your head to face him, his eyes are impossibly tender.
“Yeah?” you whisper back, and he lets his arm trail down from your head to your hand, threading his fingers carefully into yours.
Your loss, my win, series Masterlist- Oscar Jack Piastri ✨
Summary- What should've been a happy pregnancy, collapses after lando is seen with a model, but in a turn of event, his teammate’s constant presence and patience turns him from just a friend, to a lover.
Warnings- this serie does contain hate comments and inappropriate language, as well as Landoscar heated moments.
1. Your loss, my win.
2. My win
3. Your loss- Coming soon
4. Seriously? - Coming soon
5. Get over it- coming soon
6. Grown woman, btw. - coming soon.
7. Forever us - coming soon
A/N- Omggg I have started writing part 2 AND 3 and I’m so lol excited! At first it was only supposed to be 5 parts- but the ideas just kept coming up and I reached flow state writing a narrative for each part 🥹. Soo second part coming out possibly monday 👀
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Summary: Being Lando Norris’ girlfriend is a privilege, but being Oscar Piastri’s eye candy is something else entirely — a struggle between following your heart or surrendering to long‑hidden desire for your boyfriend’s teammate.
Everyone called you and Lando the perfect couple.
It was a label that clung to you, whispered in the paddock and splashed across headline who adored the way you seemed to fit so effortlessly together. And for a long time, you believed it too.
You met Lando back when you were nothing more than a casual fan of racing, and he was still a rookie finding his footing in Formula 1. The encounter was almost comical. You were minding your own business when some stranger bumped into you, sending cola splashing down your clothes. Before you could even react, Lando appeared from a few steps away, thrusting napkins toward you with a flustered apology and a sheepish grin.
That moment became the beginning of something you never expected to last for years. From then on, your lives slowly intertwined, the bond deepening with every season, every victory and every loss.
For years, you believed in the perfection everyone else saw. You and Lando laughed easily, supported each other without question, and built something that felt solid and unshakable. You grew together, learned each other’s rhythms, and faced the chaos of the paddock side by side.
But perfection has cracks. And those cracks began to form the moment Oscar Piastri entered the picture.
Oscar was nothing like Lando. Where Lando was open, playful, and impossible to misread, Oscar is the opposite. He carried himself with a calm composure that made him seem distant, almost untouchable. And somehow, that contrast unsettled you.
At first, it was harmless. A fleeting admiration — maybe, not even a crush. You noticed his kindness, his sense of responsibility, especially the way his politeness felt effortless rather than performative. He wasn’t less than Lando. Just different. And that difference made him magnetic.
Despite of feeling those, the quiet admiration didn’t last.
It shattered the day Oscar arrived in the paddock with a girl by his side. She was beautiful —radiant in a way that drew attention without trying. Soon, you learned she was his girlfriend. Watching the way he cared for her — the subtle touches, the quiet attentiveness, stirred something sharp and unwelcome inside your chest.
So you let it go.
You reminded yourself that you had Lando. The man you loved, the person who has been there since the beginning. Doing the right thing, you pushed Oscar to the farthest corner of your mind and poured yourself back into your relationship, becoming more present and more devoted.
And for a while, it worked.
Years passed. Oscar became background noise, a name, a face you barely lingered on.
Until Suzuka.
It should have been routine just another race weekend. But Oscar was off. His performance faltered, his demeanor weighed down by something unspoken, his silence heavier than usual. The results reflected it. Then the reason surfaced: his relationship had ended.
You shouldn’t have felt anything. You shouldn’t have cared.
Yet when the news reached you, your heart stuttered, racing ahead of your thoughts. You didn’t dwell on the details, didn’t need to. All that mattered was the moment your eyes met across the paddock brief, piercing, and impossible to forget.
From then on, you made a choice. You would only speak to Oscar when necessary. You kept your distance not just for loyalty’s sake but for your own sanity.
“Lando is a lucky bastard.”
The voice snapped you out of your thoughts. You turned to find Oscar leaning casually against the wall, a faint smile playing on his lips. He was dressed simply. A crisp white shirt, black shorts as if he’d just arrived and hadn’t meant to stay long.
“Hey,” you greeted him, polite yet guarded. However, no matter how much you try to act calm, your eyes betrayed you, lingering on his face as if tracing familiar lines you’d sworn to ignore.
Oscar chuckled as he pushed off the wall and walked closer, hands slipping into his pockets. “Hi. Have you been since earlier?” His tone was easy, almost light.
You nodded. “Yeah. I’m waiting for him to finish media obligations.”
Oscar hummed in response, his gaze settling on you. It wasn’t improper barely intentionalbut it was enough to warm your cheeks. You looked away quickly, embarrassed by the sudden heat.
The silence stretched, but it wasn’t empty. Glances passed between you. Brief, charged, and heavy with everything neither of you would name.
It was just admiration, you told yourself. Nothing more but everything begins with small things.
The first time Oscar saw you, he felt something he couldn’t quite identify.
There was no drama to it, no cinematic pause, no moment demanding attention. Just sunlight catching in your hair as you laughed at something Lando said, warmth radiating from you without effort.
In that moment Oscar’s heart stop beating. There was something in your smile, something alive in your eyes that he could never explain, and for one dangerous second, he felt the sudden pull from it.
Then came the introductions.
“Mate, this is my girlfriend,” Lando said, casual and proud.
You are now facing him, wearing the sweetest smile he just admire earlier and just like that, the attraction he had was immediately forced to thrown away. Oscar smiled politely, shook your hand, and look away.
Whatever it was, it couldn’t exist. Not here, not with his teammate’s girlfriend.
After his rookie season, Oscar returned to Australia for summer break. The pace slowed, the noise faded, and for the first time in months, he breathed. That was when he met her.
She wasn’t you and that was the point. She was bright, kind, grounding in ways he needed at the time. With her, there were no comparisons, no silent calculations, no pressure to be anything other than present.
Oscar fell for her. Truly.
Days blurred into evenings filled with laughter, quiet coastal drives, shared coffees in small cafés. She was his escape, his anchor, proof that life existed beyond lap times and expectations.
For a while, he believed it was enough.
Yet even then even when he was happy, Oscar noticed you. In passing moments, in crowded rooms, in the way your presence seemed to linger without demanding attention. He told himself it meant nothing. Just respect. Just familiarity.
Oscar repeated it until it stuck: She’s with Lando and he is in love with his girlfriend.
Most days, Oscar believes it. Then Suzuka happened.
The race was unforgiving. His performance suffered under the weight of emotions he couldn’t outrun. The breakup had been quiet, painful, inevitable. He didn’t speak about it much, Oscar didn’t have to. The silence around him said everything.
And then he looked up.
Your eyes met across the paddock and the spark he’d buried years ago flared back to life immediate, undeniable.
Oscar’s chest tightened. His pulse spiked and for the first time in years, he didn’t push the feeling away.
Oscar told himself it was grief, loneliness, the aftermath of losing someone he loved. But deep down, he knew better.
The crush he’d hidden the day Lando introduced you hadn’t disappeared. It waited. Quiet, restrained, and patient beneath layers of discipline.
Oscar didn’t act on it. He couldn’t — not yet. But every glance, every word exchanged, every shared moment reminded him of the truth he’d tried to bury. You weren’t just Lando’s girl.
You were the flame he could never put out no matter how much he tries.
You should have avoided it the moment you realized something was shifting between the two of you. At first, it was subtle, so small you could dismiss it as imagination. A glance held half a second too long. A pause before one of you spoke, as if weighing words that never made it out. Harmless things, barely noticeable.
Until they weren’t. Until silence began to feel heavier than conversation. Until moments that once passed unnoticed started to linger, stretching thin and taut, threatening to snap.
You told yourself to be careful. You told yourself to stop reading into things. So you pulled back.
You answered Oscar politely, briefly. You chose seats farther away. You kept conversations safe, surface‑level, your voice light even when your thoughts weren’t. When he looked at you, you looked elsewhere. When his presence drew you in, you reminded yourself Lando.
Oscar noticed. Of course he did.
At first, he mirrored your restraint. He gave you space, retreating just enough to make it seem mutual. But awareness, once it settled in, was impossible to shake. Every attempt to step away only made the pull sharper.
“You okay?” he asked one evening, his tone casual, posture careful.
You nodded too quickly. “Yeah. Just tired.”
He studied you for a moment, eyes narrowing not suspicious, just observant. “You’ve been… quieter.”
“I’m fine,” you said again, firmer this time. Final.
Oscar didn’t push, he never did. That was part of the problem.
Days pressed on, proximity unavoidable. Shared schedules, shared spaces, small routines that became familiar far too fast.
You learned the sound of his footsteps without looking. He learned the exact moment you needed silence.
And slowly, against your better judgment, the distance you tried to build began to collapse.
It happened in fragments.
A laugh you didn’t mean to share. A conversation that drifted too late into the night.
A moment where you forgot to keep your guard up and didn’t want to put it back on.
Each time, you pulled away afterward, guilt settling heavy in your chest. Each time, Oscar felt it and let you go, even though every part of him strained against it.
You told yourself it didn’t matter.
McLaren’s private party was alive with celebration, the hum of laughter and clinking glasses filling the air. Music pulsed faintly in the background, just loud enough to blur into the noise of voices. With both drivers leading the standings, the night felt earned. Justified.
You should have been happy.
All smiles. All ease.
But the tightness in your chest betrayed you. You told yourself it was fatigue, the weight of too many weeks spent overthinking. Yet you knew better.
It was Alex.
She stood too close to Oscar, her laughter soft, her hand brushing his arm with deliberate ease. Nothing vulgar, nothing outwardly inappropriate but enough to burn your throat.
So you did what you were good at.
You looked away.
The shift in your mood was sharp, immediate. No matter how hard you tried to mask it, your body betrayed you.
And Lando noticed.
He broke off mid‑sentence, eyes flicking toward your face. “Hey… what’s wrong? Are you okay, babe?”
You forced a smile, brittle at the edges. “Nothing.”
He studied you, unconvinced but gentle. “You sure?”
You nodded automatically. “Yeah. Just tired.”
He didn’t press, turning back to the conversation. But the moment he did, your arms crossed, your jaw tightened, laughter slipped from your lips less easily. Again and again, your gaze drifted back to Oscar to Alex to the way he leaned in, listening.
Eventually, Lando followed your line of sight. “Oh,” he said lightly, almost amused. “Oscar’s making friends.”
No suspicion. No bitterness. Just an observation.
You didn’t respond.
Around the table, Andrea cracked a joke, Zak teased, the room carried on. Your smile stayed fixed. Your chest stayed tight.
Oscar felt it next.
Not just your eyes, but the shift in your presence. The way the air cooled when you passed him, the clipped tone when you spoke earlier. He excused himself from Alex politely, words you didn’t catch, and when you turned away, weaving back toward your seat, Lando had already disappeared into another cluster of people.
It made wandering easier.
“Hey,” Oscar called, voice low, urgent.
You heard him. You didn’t stop. You set your plate down on a random table and kept walking, heels echoing against the floor.
He caught up easily, falling into step beside you. “Did I do something?”
A humorless laugh escaped you. “Why would you?”
You stopped in an empty corridor, the party muffled behind closed doors. Your eyes refused to settle drifting to his chest, the ceiling, the floor. Anywhere but his face.
Oscar watched you closely. “You’re upset.”
“No, I’m not.”
“You are,” he said calmly, stepping closer. “You won’t even look at me.”
That did it. Your gaze snapped up, sharp and unguarded. “Why do you care?”
He blinked, caught off guard. “Because I—” His jaw tightened. “Because I noticed.”
You scoffed, harsh even to your own ears. “Right. Well, don’t.”
The words sounded petty, unreasonable. But you couldn’t stop them.
“Go back to her,” you added, gesturing vaguely over your shoulder. “She seemed very interested.”
His brow furrowed, irritation bleeding into his voice. “What are you talking about?”
“The girl,” you snapped. “The one you were clearly enjoying the company of.”
He stared at you, then something shifted in his expression. “Are you… upset about that?”
Your arms folded tighter, a shield you didn’t trust. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
But the denial rang hollow. Oscar exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down his jaw. “If something’s wrong, just tell me.”
“I just did,” you bit out. “You should go. I don’t want to deal with this.”
“With what?” he pressed, frustration slipping through. “You being angry at me for talking to someone?”
“Yes,” you shot back. “Exactly that.”
The words hung between you.
Oscar went still. “You’re jealous,” he said quietly not accusing, just stunned.
You laughed, sharp and defensive. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Then why does it bother you?”
“It doesn’t.”
“Then why are you acting like this?”
Silence cracked open. Your breathing grew heavier, the air too tight to hold everything unsaid.
“You don’t get to ask me that,” you said finally, voice trembling despite your effort. “You don’t get to act like I owe you explanations.”
Something in him snapped — not loudly, but completely.
“No,” he said, tone hardening. “You don’t get to be angry at me for having a life.”
Your chest tightened painfully. “I didn’t say you couldn’t.”
“You didn’t have to,” he shot back. “You’re acting like I betrayed you.”
Your mouth opened, then closed again, words refusing to cooperate.
Oscar stepped closer, lowering his voice. “You don’t have the right to be jealous.”
The words landed like a slap.
“Because I don’t belong to you,” he continued, jaw tight. “And you don’t belong to me.”
You swallowed hard. “I know that.”
“Do you?” he challenged. “Because you’re acting like you feel something you’re not willing to admit.”
Anger flared, sharp and panicked. “Maybe I’m just tired of you acting like you care.”
He laughed bitterly. “You think this is acting?”
“Then what is it?” you demanded.
He hesitated. Just for a second. And that hesitation hurt more than anything he could have said.
“I care,” he admitted quietly. “Too much. And that’s the problem.”
Your voice broke. “Then stop.”
“I can’t,” he said flatly. “And you need to stop pretending you don’t feel it too.”
You shook your head, tears burning hot behind your eyes. “You don’t get to say that. I have Lando.”
“I know,” Oscar said, pain flashing across his face. “And that’s why you’re allowed to walk away. But don’t punish me for something you won’t face.”
Something inside you finally snapped.
The restraint. The pretending. The fear of naming it.
“Fine!” The word tore out of you. “I am upset. Mad — whatever this is. But Oscar, I’m not supposed to feel this.”
Your voice cracked, frustration spilling freely. “I love my boyfriend. I really do. This—” you gestured helplessly between you, “this is fucking wrong.”
A tear slipped free, burning its path down your cheek.
“And yet,” you whispered, voice shaking, “no matter how wrong it feels… I still fucking want it.”
Oscar’s breath hitched.
He reached out before he thought better of it, thumb brushing gently beneath your eye, wiping the tear away. His touch was careful, reverent.
Then, barely above a whisper, Oscar said, “Then tell me to stop.”
The door didn’t just click shut, it felt like the seal on a pressure cooker finally snapping. The muffled bass from the McLaren party downstairs was a distant, mocking heartbeat, but the only rhythm that mattered was the frantic, jagged breath Oscar was dragging out of his lungs.
Oscar’s movements were deliberate, almost clinical in their intensity, as he moved to the edge of the bed. He didn't rush. He wanted to prolong the agony of the betrayal, to make sure the sensation was burned into your nerves.
He grabbed your ankles, his grip like iron, and hauled you to the very edge of the mattress until your legs fell open, completely exposed to the amber city light and his predatory gaze.
Before his mouth even touched you, he leaned down to press a row of hot, lingering kisses along your inner thighs. His stubble grazed the sensitive skin, a sharp contrast to the velvet heat of his breath.
"You’re trembling," he murmured against your skin, his voice a dark, vibrating thrum. "Is it the cold, or are you terrified of how much you want me to do this?"
He didn't wait for an answer. He reached up, his large palm cupping you entirely, pressing his hand flat against your heat. He groaned at the slickness he found there, his fingers sliding through the moisture as he began to palm you in slow, heavy circles. The pressure was maddening deliberate and grounding.
"You’re a mess for me," he whispered, looking up to catch your eyes. "Soaking through your skin before I’ve even touched your clit."
Then, he used his thumb. He found the small, swollen bud and began to roll it with a torturous, rhythmic pressure. He wasn't gentle; he was firm, his thumb mimicking the precision he used on a gear shift. You arched off the bed, a high, broken sound escaping your throat.
"Oscar, please... just—"
"Just what?" he challenged, his other hand sliding two fingers deep inside you, stretching you open as his thumb continued its relentless work. "You want me to stop? You want to go back to Lando and pretend you’re not a shaking wreck in my hands?"
He lowered his head then, his hot breath hitting your wet folds just seconds before his tongue made contact. He started slow, licking the overflow of your desire from your thighs before burying his face in you.
The first long, flat stroke of his tongue from your bottom to the very top of your clit made your vision explode in white light.
He was relentless. He used his tongue like a weapon, swirling and flicking with a punishing speed. He sucked at you, his mouth creating a vacuum that felt like it was pulling the very core of you out.
Between the deep, wet laps of his tongue, he used his fingers to stretch you wider, his nose buried in you, inhaling the scent of your arousal like it was the only air he had left.
"You taste like a fucking sin," he growled against your skin, his voice muffled and thick with lust. He increased the pressure, his tongue darting out in sharp, rhythmic stabs against your clit while his fingers pumped deep inside you.
"I want to hear you scream my name. I want everyone in this hotel to know exactly who’s making you come this hard."
You were sobbing now, your fingers tangled in his hair, alternately trying to pull him closer and push him away as the climax built like a tidal wave. You shattered under the force of it, your internal muscles clenching violently around his fingers as a long, jagged scream tore from your lungs.
Oscar didn't pull away. He stayed there, lapping at you, savoring every drop of your release until your shaking slowed, marking his territory with the utter ruin of your composure.
The room was thick with the scent of you, a heavy, musky cloud that seemed to fuel the fire in Oscar’s eyes. He stayed between your legs for a moment longer, breathing you in, his face glistening in the amber light.
But as your shaking began to subside, you weren't ready to let the tension break. You reached down, your fingers tangling in his hair, and tugged not to push him away but to bring him up.
"My turn," you rasped, your voice wrecked from the scream he’d just dragged out of you.
Oscar’s jaw tightened, a low growl vibrating in his chest as he climbed onto the bed, sitting back on his heels. He looked lethal his hair mussed, his eyes dark with a possessive, territorial hunger. You slid off the mattress, your knees hitting the plush carpet with a soft thud, and looked up at him.
The sight of him, thick and pulsing with a desperate, heavy need, made your pulse skip. You didn't rush. You reached out, your fingertips grazing the underside of his shaft, tracing the prominent veins that throbbed with his heartbeat.
"You’re so needy for me, Oscar," you whispered, watching a fresh bead of pre-cum pearl at the tip.
You leaned in, your breath hot against the sensitive head of his cock. You started by swirling your tongue slowly around the ridge, licking away the moisture with broad, wet strokes that had Oscar’s hips bucking off the bed.
"Fuck," he hissed, his hands slamming down onto your shoulders, his fingers digging into your skin. "Don't... don't tease me. I’m already on the edge."
"I want you to beg for it," you murmured against his skin, before taking just the head into your mouth, sucking with a slow, rhythmic pressure that made him groan a filth-filled string of curses.
You used your hand to stroke the base, your thumb smearing his own slickness up and down the length, making the skin glisten and slide.
You looked up at him through your lashes, the contrast of your mouth on his skin a visual that seemed to break his last shred of composure. You took him deeper, your throat tightening around his girth as you moved with a slow, deliberate suction. The sound of the wet friction filled the quiet room, drowning out the distant party noise.
"You’re a fucking pro at this," Oscar rasped, his head falling back, his throat working as he swallowed a shout. "Does he know? Does Lando have any idea what a little slut you are for me? How much you love the taste of a man who isn't yours?"
You responded by taking him even deeper, the tip of him hitting the back of your throat. Oscar let out a guttural, animalistic sound, his hands moving from your shoulders to your hair, his grip firm as he began to meet your mouth with his own desperate, snapping thrusts.
"That's it... take it all," he groaned, his voice a jagged edge. "I want to be the only thing you can taste for the rest of the night. I want you to feel the weight of my cock in your throat every time you try to kiss him later."
He was close, his body tensing, his hips snapping forward with a primal urgency. You used your tongue to flick at the sensitive underside, your hand moving faster at the base until he was nearly incoherent, his filth-laden talk turning into broken pleads.
He pulled back just before he lost it, his chest heaving as he hauled you up from the floor.
"Enough," he whispered, his eyes black with intent. "I'm not finishing in your mouth. I'm finishing deep inside you where you'll feel it all night."
Oscar didn’t give you a second to breathe. He hauled you onto the bed, flipping you onto your stomach with a strength that left you breathless. He knelt behind you, his knees forcing yours apart until you were wide open, a vulnerable, shivering invitation.
He didn't go for the kill immediately. Instead, he leaned over your back, his heavy chest pressing yours into the mattress. He grabbed both of your wrists, pinning them above your head with one hand, while the other slid down to catch your chin, forcing your head back so you had to look at him in the mirror across the room.
"Look at yourself," he hissed, his breath scorching your ear. "Look at how much you want this. Look at whose hands are on you."
With a sudden, violent surge, he drove into you from behind. The sensation was staggering a thick, blunt-force invasion that bottomed out instantly. You let out a high, broken cry that was swallowed by the pillow. He didn't wait for you to adjust. He began to move with a relentless, punishing pace, the bed frame slamming rhythmically against the wall.
"You're so fucking tight," Oscar groaned, his voice a jagged rasp of pleasure and pain. "Every time I come back to you, it's like I'm the first one to ever be here. Tell me I’m the only one who fits like this."
"Only you... Oscar, fuck, only you," you sobbed, your head thrashing.
He wasn't satisfied. He pulled out abruptly, making you whimper at the sudden cold, and flipped you onto your back. He grabbed your legs, throwing them over his shoulders so that your hips were tilted upward, exposed and helpless. He stared at you for a beat, his eyes dark with a territorial rage, before plunging back in.
This position was deeper, more invasive. You could feel every ridge of him hitting your cervix, deforming your insides with a brutal, beautiful friction. Oscar leaned forward, his hands bracing on the headboard, his arms cording with muscle as he hammered into you.
"I want you to feel the shape of me in your gut tomorrow," he bit out, his teeth bared. "When you're standing in the garage, when you're smiling for the cameras... I want you to feel exactly where I broke you."
You reached up, your fingers digging into his biceps, pulling him down for a filthy, desperate kiss. Your tongues tangled with the same violence as your bodies. You were a mess of sweat and slick skin, the air in the room smelling purely of the sin you were committing.
"Ride me," he gasped, suddenly pulling back and sitting up, bringing you with him.
He settled back against the headboard and you straddled him, sinking down until you were completely impaled.
You set the pace now, your hips rolling in slow, grinding circles that drew a long, pained moan from his throat. You leaned down, your hair a curtain around both your faces, and whispered against his lips.
"I’m going to go back to Lando," you rasped, your voice dripping with malice and need. "And I’m going to let him kiss me, and all I’m going to think about is how much better you taste. How much more of a man you are."
That was the breaking point. Oscar’s hands flew to your waist, his grip bruising as he took over the rhythm, bucking upward with a primal, desperate force. "You're a fucking traitor," he growled, his face contorting as the climax built. "And I'm never letting you go. You're mine. Say it!"
"I'm yours! Yours!" you screamed, your body shattering into a million white-hot shards as your internal muscles clamped around him in a frantic, rhythmic pulse.
Oscar let out a guttural, animalistic roar, his body going rigid as he came deep inside you, a hot, pulsing overflow that felt like a permanent mark of his ownership.
He collapsed forward, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his heart hammering a guilty, frantic duet against yours.
For a long time, the only sound was the jagged rasp of your breathing and the distant, mocking music from the party you were supposed to be at.
The air in the room was stiflingly hot, thick with the scent of sweat and the heavy, musky reality of what you had just done. Oscar was already shifting, his hands sliding over your slick skin, his voice a low, gravelly rasp of concern and lingering adrenaline.
"We need to get you cleaned up," he whispered, his thumb brushing a stray, sweat-damp hair from your forehead.
But you weren't ready to let go. The guilt was there, a dark shadow at the edge of your mind, but the physical high was stronger. You grabbed his wrists, pinning his hands to the mattress as you looked up at him with dark, defiant eyes.
"Not yet," you breathed, your voice a wrecked, thready sound. "This is the first time. It might be the last. I want to feel every second of it until I can’t breathe."
Oscar’s eyes darkened, the "polite teammate" mask shattering once again. "You’re a fucking menace," he growled, but he didn't pull away. Instead, he grabbed your ankles and hauled you back to the center of the bed.
He didn't give you a chance to breathe before he was hoisting your legs onto his shoulders. The position was raw and vulnerable, opening you up completely to the amber light of the window. He didn't use a drop of finesse this time.
He guided himself to your opening already swollen and dripping from the previous rounds and shoved back inside with a brutal, blunt-force thrust that made your head slam back against the pillows.
"You want more?" he hissed, his teeth bared as he began to hammer into you. "I'll give you enough to make you forget you ever had a boyfriend."
The angle was devastating. Every deep, rhythmic slam hit your cervix, deforming your insides and making your vision blur with white-hot sparks. You could feel the sheer thickness of him stretching you, his heavy balls hitting against you with a wet, rhythmic sound that echoed in the quiet room.
"Say it," he commanded, his hands reaching down to grip the sheets on either side of your head. "Tell me you're a little traitor. Tell me you want me to ruin you for him."
"Ruin me," you sobbed, your fingers digging into the muscles of his calves where your legs were hooked over his shoulders. "Fuck, Oscar... make me yours."
He didn't stop there. Just as you were nearing the edge, he shifted his weight, rolling you onto your side while staying buried deep inside you. He pulled your top leg high, pinning it against his chest so he could enter you sideways
The change in friction was electric, the side-entry hitting a different, more sensitive spot that made your toes curl and your breath hitch in a series of sharp gasps.
He moved with a frantic, desperate energy now, his hands sliding over your body, marking your hips and breasts with his sweat-slicked palms. "Look at me," he rasped, his eyes locking onto yours as he drove into you. "I want you to see exactly who’s doing this to you. Not him. Me."
The vulgarity of the moment, the knowledge of Lando just floors below, and the feeling of Oscar filling you to the absolute brim combined into a final, violent climax. You shattered, your body arching in a rigid line as you screamed into his shoulder.
Oscar followed immediately, a guttural, animalistic roar escaping him as he buckled, his body shuddering as he spilled into you once more, a hot, pulsing overflow that felt like a permanent mark of his possession.
He collapsed against you, his forehead resting on yours, both of you gasping for air in the wreckage of the bedsheets.
"Now," he whispered, his voice cold with the returning weight of reality. "Now we clean up. Because if I keep touching you, I’m never letting you walk out that door."
The silence in the McLaren motorhome was thick but for Lando, it was peaceful. He sat beside you, his arm draped comfortably over your shoulders, his thumb absentmindedly stroking your arm. He was talking about the car's balance, his voice light and full of the easy warmth that used to be your anchor.
You sat there, hands folded over the slight but unmistakable swell of your stomach. You were four months along. To Lando, this was the crowning achievement of your relationship — a "victory lap" for the love he thought was solid. He had no idea that every time he felt the baby kick, your heart didn't swell with joy; it constricted with a terrifying, agonizing guilt.
"You're quiet today, babe," Lando murmured, leaning in to kiss your temple. "The little one giving you a hard time?"
"Just tired, Lan," you whispered, the lie tasting like ash.
When Lando’s trainer called him away for a final debrief, the air seemed to rush back into your lungs. You stood up, needing to move, needing to escape the suffocating kindness of the man you were betraying. You made your way toward the back exit of the paddock, heading for the driver's parking lot where the air was cooler and the crowds were thin.
You didn't hear him follow you. You didn't have to. You felt the shift in the atmosphere — the sudden, electric charge that only one person brought into your orbit.
Before you could reach your car, a hand shot out, grasping your wrist and pulling you inside the parked SUV not from afar.
Oscar looked wrecked. His hair was damp with sweat from the session, his racing suit tied around his waist, revealing the white Nomex undershirt that clung to his frame. He didn't say a word. He just looked down at your stomach, his jaw tight, his eyes burning with a possessive, tortured hunger.
"Oscar, don't," you breathed, though your hands were already finding the heat of his waist.
"Lando is just inside..."
"I don't care," he rasped, his voice dropping an octave. He stepped into you, his knees forcing yours apart, his hands coming up to cradle your face with a bruising intensity. "I’ve watched him touch you all day. I’ve watched him act like that’s his."
"It has to be his, Oscar. It has to be," you whispered quietly.
"Liar," he hissed and then the next thing you know, his mouth is already on yours.
The tinted windows of Oscar’s SUV were the only thing separating you from the high-stakes world of the paddock just yards away. Outside, fans and McLaren mechanics were milling about, but inside, the air was thick with the scent of leather, sweat, and a betrayal so deep it felt like a physical weight.
Oscar didn't even wait to get into the back seat. He hauled you onto his lap in the driver’s seat, your back to the steering wheel, your legs draped over his powerful thighs. The four-month swell of your pregnancy was a firm, rounded barrier between your bodies, a constant, visual reminder of the lie you were living.
"You're so fucking sensitive," Oscar growled, his hands shaking as he tore at the front of your dress. Because of the pregnancy, your breasts were heavy, swollen, and tracing some visible veins ready for him.
He didn't hesitate. He leaned forward and took one dark, aching nipple into his mouth, sucking with a starving intensity. You let out a jagged, high-pitched moan that echoed off the windshield. As he nursed and tugged, a thin, white drop of early milk at the tip of your nipple appeared. Oscar’s eyes blew wide as he saw it. He didn't pull away instead he licked it off with a slow, possessive swipe of his tongue.
"Look at this," he rasped, his voice thick with a mix of awe and territorial rage. "You’re already producing for me. Your body knows whose child this is, even if Lando is too fucking blind to see it."
"Oscar, stop... it’s too much," you sobbed, your head thrashing against the headrest. Your body was hyper-sensitized, your skin feeling like it was on fire wherever he touched you. "I'm so horny it hurts. Please, I need to feel you."
He didn't make you wait. Oscar hiked the hem of your dress to your waist and guided himself to your opening. Because of the pregnancy, you were engorged, slicker and tighter than ever before. When he drove upward into you, it was a staggering, blunt invasion. You screamed into the quiet cabin, your fingers digging into his shoulders, your nails drawing blood through his shirt.
"Fuck," Oscar groaned, his head slamming back as he felt your body clench around him. "You’re so full... I can feel how much you want this. You’re stretched so wide for me."
He began to move with a frantic, punishing rhythm, his hips snapping upward. Every thrust hit your cervix, deforming your insides and making the baby kick in protest. Oscar felt the movement against his own abdomen and it seemed to drive him insane. He reached down, his large hand splaying over your firm, distended belly, holding you in place as he hammered into you.
"Tell me," he hissed, his teeth grazing your ear. "When Lando rubs this belly tonight, are you going to tell him how hard I fucked you in this car? Are you going to tell him you were leaking for me while he was looking for you?"
"No... oh god, no," you gasped, your hips bucking as the climax began to build, a violent, unstoppable wave. "I'm your little traitor... I'm yours, Oscar. Please, finish inside me. Mark us both."
The admission broke his final shred of control. He grabbed your waist, pulling you down onto him with bruising force, his thrusts becoming shallow and rapid. You shattered, your internal muscles clamping around his thick length in a frantic, rhythmic pulse that had him roaring in agony and pleasure.
Oscar followed a second later, his body going rigid under yours as he spilled deep inside you, a hot, pulsing overflow that felt like a permanent seal on his ownership of the life growing within you.
He stayed buried in you for a long time, his forehead resting against your chest, both of you gasping in the humid dark of the car.
The car felt like a pressurized chamber, the windows fogged over from the heat of your bodies. Oscar didn't pull away, he stayed buried deep inside you, his heavy weight a grounding presence as your heart gradually slowed its frantic pace. He rested his forehead against your collarbone, his breath hot and ragged against your skin.
One of his hands remained splayed over the hard, rounded swell of your stomach. He began to stroke the skin there with a gentleness that was almost more painful than his previous roughness. It was the touch of a man acknowledging a miracle he wasn't allowed to claim in the light of day.
"He's moving," Oscar whispered, his voice cracked and hollow. He lifted his head, his eyes searching yours with a tortured intensity. "I can feel him. He’s active because he knows I’m here. He knows his father’s voice."
"Oscar, don't say that," you breathed, reaching up to cup his face, your thumb tracing the sharp line of his jaw. "You know what happens if we let ourselves believe that."
"How am I supposed to watch you walk back in there?" he asked, ignoring your plea. He leaned in, pressing a slow, bruisingly intimate kiss to your lips tasting the salt of your tears and the lingering heat of your shared climax.
"How am I supposed to sit through another dinner hearing him talk about 'his' child? I see your body changing every day. I see your breasts getting heavier, your hips widening... I see you becoming a mother, and I have to pretend I’m just no one."
He sat up slightly, his hands moving to your chest. He watched with a dark, fascinatied hunger as he traced theskin, his thumbs catching the small, white beads of milk that had surfaced during the heat of it.
"You're becoming so beautiful," he murmured, his gaze dropping back to your belly. He leaned down, pressing a lingering, reverent kiss to the very center of the swell. "Every change, every new curve... it’s all mine. It’s the only part of you he hasn’t touched, isn't it? The way your body is transforming to protect what we made."
He held you there for a long time afterward, your hearts hammering a frantic duet against each other. The silence of the parking lot felt heavier than ever.
Oscar kept his forehead pressed to yours, his hand lingering on your stomach, his thumb tracing the curve through your clothes.
"He's going to find out," Oscar whispered, his voice cold with the reality of what came next. "You can't keep me away from my child."
When you both dressed up and fix yourself. He stepped back slowly, helping you to go out, his eyes never leaving yours. He looked like a man who had just declared war. And as you smoothed your dress, neither of you noticed the lens of a long-range camera peeking from behind a nearby hospitality unit when you both go out.
The shutter clicking away, capturing the definitive proof that the "perfect" McLaren romance was a lie.
Some things are meant to be kept hidden. But for the press who accidentally witness what happened, this is a great news not just for him but for everyone who loves drama.
Because all this time, the perfect girlfriend is in wrong papaya car and tomorrow, when the sun rises, everyone would know you belonged to the man in the #81.
Description: You're Lando Norris's personal assistant, which means your job description includes three things: fixing his disasters, answering his calls at ungodly hours, and definitely not thinking about kissing your boss. The first two you're great at. The third one? That's becoming a problem.
Genre: lando being a little shit, he does not hide that he wants ur kitty, angst, fingering during meetings, fucking in hotel rooms, why are we fighting every 2 minutes
WC: 24k
IMPORTANT NOTE: hi friends, you might be wondering bella why is this not being posted on @landologged, i have been shadowbanned indefinetly (tumblr pls go fuck urself), all of my fics are going to STAY on there, but the new ones/updates will be posted on here, until i am unbanned (if, that even happens)
Your phone rings at 3 AM, which can only mean one thing. Lando Norris calling, which means this is going to be so much worse than any text could ever convey. You stare at the ceiling of your Monaco apartment, counting to ten in three different languages before you answer. It's a technique you've perfected over the past several years of working for Lando, which requires a special kind of patience-building exercise that keeps you from committing what would definitely be classified as justifiable homicide.
Not that you'd get away with it. You probably would, actually, but that's beside the point.
"Lando," you answer, voice flat as the fucking pavement. "Unless you're currently on fire or have been kidnapped, this can wait until morning."
"Wow, so you'd just let me burn?" His voice comes through warm and sleep-rough and far too chipper for 3 in the fucking morning. There's an echo to it, the telltale acoustics of an airport terminal, and you curse under your breath. He's supposed to be on a flight right now. He's supposed to be thirty thousand feet in the air, unconscious, not bothering you.
"That's cold," he adds, and you can hear the grin in his voice, "noted for future reference."
You close your eyes. "Where are you?"
"So , uhm, I'm in Bahrain—"
"You're supposed to be in Monaco."
"—yeah, about that," he continues as if you haven't spoken at all, and you can hear the grin in his voice. The bastard thinks this is funny. He thinks this is hilarious. "I might've gotten on the wrong plane."
You sit up. God, you hate your life. You hate your job. You hate that you're awake right now. Most of all, you hate that you aren't even surprised. "You might have what?"
"Okay, I definitely got on the wrong plane," he amends, and there's a rustling sound like he's shifting his phone to his other ear. "But in my defense, the vodka Red Bulls at the airport were really strong, and Oscar dared me to see if I could get through security in under thirty seconds, and then there was this really fit flight attendant who asked if I needed help finding my gate, so ya'know, being the gentleman I am—"
You cut him off before he can finish that sentence. "Lando."
"—and I said yes obviously, because I'm not rude, and she was smiling at me with that smile, you know the one the ladies use—"
"Lando."
"—where it's like, super flirty but also professional? And she had these eyes that were doing this thing—"
"Lando."
He stops. You can practically hear him smirking through the phone, can picture the exact expression on his face, the one that makes you want to strangle him with your bare hands. "Yes?" He says it so innocently, so fucking sweetly, like he hasn't just woken you up at 3 AM to tell you he's on the wrong continent. "That's my name, by the way. Love it when you say it like that. Especially when you're all angry and you do that thing where your voice gets all—"
"What," you interrupt, jaw clenched, "do you need."
"See? That. That right there." He's definitely smirking now. You want to throw your phone into the Mediterranean Sea. You want to throw him into the Mediterranean Sea. "Makes me feel things."
You don't dignify that with a response.
"Anyway," he continues, undeterred as always, "I need you to book me a flight back and maybe fix things with my sponsor who I was supposed to meet with—"
There's a pause. You hear him ask someone in the background, "Mate, what time is it? Cheers."
Then, back to you, far too casually, "Yeah, so about four hours ago."
"Stay where you are," you cut him off, already climbing out of bed. Your feet hit the cold floor, and you're already mentally running through which contacts you'll need to grovel to at this hour. "I'll handle it."
"Ooh, so commanding." His voice drops lower, teasing in that way that makes you want to reach through the phone and— "Do you talk to all your clients like this, or am I special?"
"You're something."
"I'll take it." You can hear the smile in his voice, warm and infuriating and so fucking pleased with himself. "Knew you loved me."
"That's not what I said."
"Didn't have to," he replies, like it's obvious, like you've just confirmed something he's always known. "I can read between the lines. It's one of my many talents, actually, along with being really good at driving and also being really good at—"
"I'm hanging up now."
"Wait wait wait," he says quickly, and there's something slightly different in his voice now, less performative. "Will you actually fix it? With the sponsor? I know I fucked up."
You pause at your bedroom door. This is the thing about Lando that makes it impossible to actually hate him, just when you think he's completely oblivious, completely wrapped up in his own chaos, he does this, acknowledges the mess, trusts you to fix it. Doesn't apologize—he never apologizes—but asks anyway.
"I'll handle it," you repeat, softer this time. You shouldn't be softer. "Just stay at the airport, Lando. And please, for the love of god, do not get on any more planes."
"Yes, ma'am." He's back to teasing, just like that, the moment already gone. "Love it when you boss me around, by the way. Should I call you boss? Or do you prefer something else? I'm pretty flexible."
"Goodbye, Lando."
"Wait," But you're already pulling the phone away from your ear when you hear him say, "You're incredible, you know that?"
You pause and your thumb hovers over the end call button.
"I'm serious," he adds, but his voice hasn't gone soft. He sounds exactly the same—amused, chaotic, like he's grinning on the other end. Like he's always grinning. "You're the best thing that's ever happened to me, and I'm including my first win in that statement. Don't let it go to your head, though."
You exhale through your nose.
"Without me, you'd probably still be in Bahrain," you say finally. "Go drink some water. I'll text you the flight details."
"Aw, you care about my hydration levels." He sounds delighted. "That's basically a love language, ya' know."
You hang up and your apartment is quiet except for the distant sound of waves and your own heartbeat, which is doing something annoying in your chest. You pad into your kitchen with its view of the Mediterranean that you never get to enjoy because you're always putting out fires that Lando starts.
Metaphorical fires, mostly. Though there was that one incident in Singapore that the team agreed to never speak of again. Your laptop boots up as you make coffee, strong, black. The blue light illuminates your face as you pull up his schedule, his flight options, draft what will be a very apologetic email to the sponsor he's just stood up.
You've written variations of this email so many times you could probably do it in your sleep. Maybe you are doing it in your sleep. Is this a nightmare? It would make sense if this was a nightmare.
This is your life now. Has been your life for years, actually, and you still haven't figured out how you ended up here—awake at 3 AM, fixing problems for a man who gets on the wrong plane because a flight attendant smiled at him.
At least the pay is good.
Lando's apartment looks like someone gave a golden retriever a Black Amex and thirty minutes in an interior design showroom. You let yourself in with the key he gave you three months ago. The fifth time he'd locked himself out, he'd just shrugged and said "might as well" and handed you a spare.
The hallway opens into the main living space, there’s framed F1 car prints lining the walls in that papaya orange that's burned into your retinas at this point, there's a gym bag spilling protein powder across the hallway floor. His helmet collection sits in a backlit display case like he's running a museum dedicated just to himself. There's a DJ setup gathering dust by the windows, you've seen him use it exactly twice, both times drunk off his ass at 2 AM, and both times his neighbors complained.
"Lando?" You call out, toeing off your shoes by the door. "Meeting's in two hours. We need to go over your schedule."
There's a crash from deeper in the apartment, followed by a string of curses. "Fuck—shit—"
"Are you dying?"
"Kitchen! And don't come in, I'm basically naked!"
You head straight for the kitchen. When Lando Norris tells you not to do something, it's usually because he's already done that exact thing and it's gone horribly wrong.
The kitchen is all white cabinets and black marble countertops, which are pristine nine out of ten times because Lando doesn't cook. Can't cook, more accurately. He once tried to make toast and somehow set off the fire alarm. Yes, he texted you for help. No, you don't want to talk about it.
A single trainer sits in the sink for some reason, and you don't ask.
When you round the corner into the kitchen, you stop dead. He's at the island, fresh out of the shower. Water drips from his hair onto his bare shoulders, trailing down his chest, then his stomach, catching the morning light filtering through the windows. The towel around his hips is slung so low you can see the sharp V of his hipbones—that line of muscle that disappears beneath white cotton.
He's holding a yogurt container in one hand, spoon in the other, staring at both like he's forgotten how they work together.
"Ha! Told you not to come in," he says, grinning like he just won pole position, "but you did anyway, so this is on you."
You're staring. You know you're staring. His hair's dripping water onto the counter. There's a droplet sliding down his collarbone, another one trailing down his abs, and your brain has just completely fucking blue-screened.
"Put a shirt on."
"That's not an answer about the yogurt."
"Lando."
"What? I just got out of the shower, it's my apartment." He takes a step closer and you can smell his body wash. "You're the one who walked in on me. Why, is this distracting or something? Am I being unprofessional?"
Yes. Extremely fucking yes. Your brain has completely shorted out and you're having thoughts that would get you fired, probably sued, definitely escorted out of the building by security.
"The sponsor meeting is in two hours and we need to prep." You force yourself to look at his face. Just his face. Nowhere else. His face is safe, except his mouth is doing that thing where he bites his bottom lip and that's not safe at all.
"I'm listening. Go ahead, prep me." He leans back against the counter and crosses his arms over his chest. His biceps flex and you watch the muscle move under his skin and forget how to breathe.
"Can you put on clothes first?"
"Can't, actually. All my clothes are in the bedroom, and if I walk away now you'll just follow me there, won't you? And then we'll really be in trouble." His grin widens and you can see the exact moment the idea takes root in his head. "Unless that's what you want? I'm not opposed to it, for the record. Bedroom's got a better view anyway."
Your face goes hot. The back of your neck prickles with heat and you know he can see it, the flush creeping up from your collar. He looks fucking delighted with himself.
"You're doing this on purpose."
"Doing what, exactly? Standing in my own kitchen in my own apartment after taking a shower? I mean, that's not a crime last time I checked." He picks up the yogurt container, squinting at the label. "Pretty sure it's fine, honestly. Smell test?"
He holds it out. You don't move.
"I'm not smelling your expired yogurt, Lando."
"See, this is the problem with our working relationship, there’s no trust whatsoever." He digs the spoon in and takes a bite, keeping his eyes locked on yours the whole time. Then proceeds to maintain eye contact while he swallows. "Tastes fine to me. Bit tangy, yeah, but could be the expiration date, could be the flavor. Who's to say, really."
"You're going to give yourself food poisoning and then I'm going to have to explain to Zak why you can't make it to testing."
"Probably, but you'll take care of me though, won't you?" He sets the yogurt down and takes another step closer. Your feet stay planted to the floor. "I mean, that's literally your job, isn't it? Taking care of me."
"My job is managing your schedule, not nursing you through a bout of salmonella because you can't be bothered to check expiration dates."
"That's the same thing, basically." Another step and he's suddenly close enough now that you can feel the heat coming off his skin, see the little scar above his eyebrow from that karting crash when he was twelve that he always brings up. Smell that fucking body wash. "You're really good at taking care of me, you know that? Like, really fucking good."
"You've mentioned it before."
"Yeah, but I don't think you get it, like, properly understand what I mean." His voice drops lower and you watch his throat move when he swallows. "Like, really good. Better than anyone else I've ever worked with, honestly. Sometimes I do stupid shit just to see what you'll do, how you'll fix it. It's become kind of a thing for me."
"That's actually psychotic."
"Nah, that's half the fun of having you around." He tilts his head and his hair drips water onto your shoe. "You're blushing, by the way."
"I'm not blushing."
"You absolutely are, it's very cute actually. Goes all the way down your neck and," His eyes track down, following the flush of heat spreading across your skin, they linger at your collarbone and you feel on fire, everywhere. "Makes me wonder how far down it actually goes."
Jesus fucking christ. "Lando."
"That's my name, yeah. You know, you say it a lot when you're flustered, I've noticed. It's sort of hot, actually, the way your voice gets all tight and annoyed, like you're trying really hard not to tell me to fuck off."
"I am trying really hard not to tell you to fuck off."
"See? Exactly like that, perfect example." Water drips from his hair onto your shoulder. "Want to know a secret?"
"Not particularly, no."
"I think about you a lot." His voice shifts, goes softer. "Like, more than is probably normal for a boss-employee situation, if I'm being honest. Definitely more than my PR team would be comfortable with if they knew."
Your heart's slamming against your ribs so hard it hurts. "You're jetlagged from the flight."
"I'm not jetlagged."
"You're delirious from expired yogurt, clearly."
"I'm completely lucid, I promise you." He reaches out and catches the hem of your shirt between his fingers. Doesn't pull you closer, just holds the fabric. His thumb brushes against your hip through the cotton. "You're avoiding the question."
"You didn't ask a question."
You've spent two years trying to resist this. This pull. This gravity. Lando Norris is a black hole and you've been orbiting him, getting closer and closer, knowing eventually you'll cross the event horizon and there will be no coming back.
"Do you think about me?" The vulnerability in his voice makes your chest ache. "When you're not working, when you're doing normal people shit, do you ever just think, 'Wonder what that dickhead Lando is doing right now?'"
"Jesus, Lando." You take a breath, trying to find some semblance of professionalism. "This is so unprofessional. You know that, right?"
"Maybe." He tips his head back slightly, looking up at you through his lashes, and there's something mischievous in his expression, a little pout, a lot of trouble. Like he knows exactly what he's doing and doesn't give a single shit about it. And, you hate to admit that you do think about him. Constantly. When you're at the grocery store and his favorite energy drink is on sale. When you're watching Netflix at 11 PM and some comedian makes a joke he'd absolutely lose his shit over. When you're lying in bed at 3 AM and your phone lights up and before you even look you know it's him.
But you're not giving him that, not a chance. His tongue flicks across his bottom lip, wetting it, and your eyes track the movement before you can stop yourself.
"See?" His grin turns absolutely wicked. "You can't even resist me right now."
"Oh my god." You roll your eyes so hard it hurts and step back, pulling your shirt free from his fingers. "Clean up your yogurt. I'm getting you a shirt."
"Wait, no—"
"Lando."
"But I like being shirtless around you," he whines, actually whines like a child. "You're so fun to tease when I'm shirtless."
"Shirt. Now. Where are they?"
He sighs dramatically, slumping against the counter. "Second drawer. The tall one. But for the record, this is cruel and unusual punishment and I'm going to file a complaint with HR."
"You don't have an HR department."
"Then I'll make one just to file a complaint." He's grinning again as you head toward his bedroom. "Make sure you grab the tight one! The black one! You know which one I mean!"
You absolutely know which one he means and you're absolutely not grabbing that one. His bedroom is somehow even more ridiculous than the rest of the apartment. The bed's massive, unmade, sheets tangled like he's been fighting them. There's a sim racing rig in the corner, and trophies line the floating shelves on the wall. A Quadrant hoodie draped over his gaming chair.
You find the dresser and pull open the second drawer. It's full of McLaren team shirts and regular t-shirts. You deliberately avoid the tight black one you know he's talking about and grab a loose grey one instead. When you walk back into the kitchen, he's still leaning against the counter, yogurt untouched, grinning at you.
"That's not the shirt I asked for."
"Clean. Up. Your. Yogurt."
"So bossy." But he's already moving, grabbing paper towels, wiping up the mess. You toss the shirt at his head and it hits him square in the face.
"Ow. Violent."
"Put it on."
"What if I don't want to?" He's holding the shirt but not putting it on, just watching you with that infuriating smirk.
"Then I'm leaving and you can explain to Zak why you missed another sponsor meeting."
"Fine, fine." He pulls the shirt on and yeah, even the loose one looks good on him. His hair's now sticking up from where the fabric messed it up. "Happy now?"
"Ecstatic. Do you want coffee?"
"You're really gonna make me coffee after I've been such a terrible boss?" He's following you to the coffee maker like a puppy.
"I'm going to make myself coffee and you can have some if you shut up for five minutes."
"I don't think I can shut up for five minutes. That's asking a lot." He watches you work, and you can feel his eyes on you. "You know how I like it though, right?"
"Two sugars, oat milk, unfortunately yes, I've memorized your terrible taste in coffee."
"It's not terrible, it's refined."
"It' tastes like ass."
"But you make it anyway." His voice has gone softer and you don't look at him. "Because you're sooooo good at taking care of me."
"Because I'm paid to take care of you."
"Yeah, yeah, same thing."
You hand him his mug and make your own. He takes a sip and makes a satisfied sound that you absolutely do not think about.
"So." You pull out your tablet, pull up your notes, try to look professional despite the fact that ten minutes ago he was basically naked and asking if you thought about him. "The meeting, let's go through the main talking points."
"Are you still thinking about it?"
"About the meeting, yeah obviously—"
"About kissing me."
Your face goes hot again. "Lando, I swear to god—"
"You've got all three tells going right now." He's grinning at you over his mug. "It's actually impressive. Didn't know you could do all three at once."
"Can we please focus?"
"I am focused. Very focused. Laser focused, actually." He sets his mug down. "Okay, tell you what. Let's make a bet."
"Absolutely not."
"If I'm perfect at this meeting and I mean perfect, no jokes, just straight on full professional Lando mode, you'll have to answer one question for me, and honestly."
You narrow your eyes. "What question?"
"That's the fun part. I'm not telling you until I win."
"You won't win. You're actually incapable of being professional for more than ten minutes."
"Bet." He holds out his hand, eyes gleaming with challenge. "Come on, unless you're scared."
You take his hand. His palm's warm, rough with calluses from the steering wheel. He holds on just a second too long, thumb brushing over your knuckles.
"You're gonna regret this."
"Maybe." His grin is absolutely feral. "But that's half the fun, isn't it?"
The sponsor meeting is in a conference room at the McLaren Technology Centre, and you arrive fifteen minutes early because Lando's never early to anything, which means you need to be early enough for both of you. Except for the fact that when you walk through the door, he's already there.
Sitting at the table. In a button-down shirt. Looking through the presentation materials like he actually cares about the quarterly projections.
"You're early," you say, and trying your best to not sound surprised.
"Yeah, well." He glances up and grins, but it's not his usual grin. "Got a bet to win, don't I?"
The sponsors arrive, there's two executives from Monster, all business suits and firm handshakes. Lando stands, smiles, does the whole being offensively charming thing. But it's different, he's actually fucking trying. You can't believe your goddamn eyes.
You sit in the corner with your tablet, taking notes, watching him work and it's fucking unsettling. He answers their questions perfectly. He's articulate, focused on them, doesn't make a single inappropriate joke. Doesn't even bother to check his phone. You've genuinely never seen this version of him before. You've seen him hungover at sponsor brunches, making jokes about his own driving. You've seen him show up twenty minutes late with his shirt on backwards. You've seen him accidentally insult a CEO's tie and then somehow charm his way out of it.
But this? This is someone who actually gives a shit. Someone who's prepared. Someone who knows exactly what he's doing and how to do it. It's terrifying because if he can be this professional, this focused, this put-together, then every other time he's been a disaster, he's been choosing to be a disaster. Which means his chaos is intentional. Which means when he shows up at your apartment at midnight because he locked himself out, when he calls you at 3 AM from the wrong country, when he stands in his kitchen in a towel asking if you think about him.
Jesus, when did it get so hot in here? You take a deep breath, grabbing your notepad and begin to fan the paper in front of your face. It certainly does not help. When you come back to the conference room, Lando's leaning back in his chair with his feet up on the table, grinning at you. The real grin, the "I totally won this bet" grin, and you feel a sinking in the pit of your stomach.
"So," he says. "I win."
You take a deep breath, realizing you have to talk your way out of this. Lando Norris always wins, always gets what he wants, and you just handed him ammunition like the fucking idiot you are.
This is how it happens—not with you quitting, not with some dramatic resignation, but with you trapped in a conference room while he cashes in a bet you never should have made. You're going to lose your job. You're going to lose everything. You can already see it, the HR meeting, the severance package, the LinkedIn post about "pursuing new opportunities" that everyone will know means you fucked your boss and it ended badly.
"You didn't even last the full hour, there's still—"
"Nope. Meeting's over. come on, I mean I was perfect." He stands up, stretching his arms over his head. His shirt rides up and you can see a strip of his stomach, the waistband of his boxers. "Which means you owe me an answer to one question. Honestly."
You open your mouth to protest, but he stops you. "Those were the terms." He's walking toward you now, and there's something predatory about it, like you're a corner he's about to take at full speed. "You shook on it."
"What's the question."
He stops right in front of you. Your throat tightens and you can see the individual lashes framing his eyes, dark against the tan of his skin. His goatee is slightly uneven, like he trimmed it himself this morning without really looking.
Your heart stops. Restarts. Stops again. "No."
"Liar." He takes a step closer. The movement is slow, deliberate, and you can feel the heat coming off his body. Your back hits the glass wall and it's cold, so cold compared to the warmth radiating from him. "Try again."
"Lando—"
"You promised to answer honestly." Another step and he's close enough now that you can smell his cologne properly—cedar and bergamot, but underneath there's something else. Something warm and slightly spicy. Amber, maybe, nonetheless, it makes your head swim, your chest ache. Water? You need water, holy water. "That was the deal."
"The deal was one question."
"And you didn't answer it." His hand comes up, bracing against the glass next to your head. Not touching you, but close enough that you can see the calluses on his palm, the white lines of old scars across his knuckles. "Do you want to kiss me? Yes or no."
Your mouth is dry. There's something throbbing low in your stomach, a pulse that matches your heartbeat. "This is so unprofessional."
"Uh-uh, not the right answer." His other hand comes up, caging you in. You can see the flutter of his pulse in his throat, the way his chest rises and falls. He's breathing faster than normal. "Come on. You're always so honest with me. So direct, let's not start lying now."
"I'm not."
"You are." He leans in and his nose brushes against your temple. You can feel his breath against your skin, warm and mint-fresh. "You're thinking about it right now. I can tell."
You realize you've stopped breathing. You inhale sharply and it's a mistake because all you can smell is him, that cologne, his own scent, it's consuming. Your head swirls, and you feel like at any moment now you might pass out. Bastard, what a fucking little shit.
"Lando, we can't."
"Why not?" His voice is low, almost a whisper, and you feel it vibrate through your chest. "Give me one good reason."
"You're my boss."
"Terrible reason. Next."
"This is the MTC, anyone could see us."
"Door's closed. Glass is tinted from the outside." His lips brush against your temple and you can feel your knees go weak. "Next."
"I—" Your voice cracks. There's heat everywhere he's close to you, like standing too near a fire. Your skin feels too tight and there's something pulsing between your legs and you press your thighs together. "This is a bad idea, very, very, bad idea."
"Probably." His hand moves from the glass to your jaw, thumb brushing over your cheekbone. His skin is rough and warm and you can feel the drag of his calluses. "But you still haven't answered my question."
You can see the green in his eyes, flecks of blue catching the fluorescent light. His pupils are dilated, dark and wide. His lips are slightly parted and you can see the white of his teeth, the pink of his tongue when he wets his bottom lip.
"Yes." The word comes out broken, barely a whisper, and it feels like signing your own death warrant. You've just ended your career. You've just destroyed every carefully maintained professional boundary. You've just proven that you're exactly what people will call you when this inevitably falls apart—a personal assistant who couldn't keep her hands to herself, who thought she was special, who believed Lando Norris when he looked at her like she mattered.
"Yes what?" He's smiling now, that wicked grin that makes your stomach flip.
"Yes, I want to kiss you." Your hands are shaking. Everything is shaking. "Happy now?"
"Getting there." His thumb moves to your bottom lip, dragging across it slowly. You can feel every ridge of his fingerprint. "How long?"
"That wasn't the question."
A knock at the door shatters the moment like glass, and you both freeze. His thumb is still on your lip. His other hand is still pressed against the small of your back. You can feel your heartbeat in your throat, your wrists, between your legs.
You can feel your heartbeat in your throat, your wrists, between your legs. Reality crashes back in like ice water. You're going to be sick. You're actually going to be sick.
"Lando?" It's Jon, his trainer. Another knock. "You in there? Got that debrief in five."
Lando closes his eyes and drops his forehead to yours. You feel him exhale, warm breath skating across your mouth.
"Yeah," he calls out, voice rough. "Be right there."
"Alright, mate. I'll head down, meet you there."
Footsteps retreat down the hallway and the silence that follows is deafening. Lando doesn't move. His thumb drags across your lip one more time, slower, and something low in your belly clenches so hard you have to bite back a sound. You're going to let him do this. You're going to let him ruin you in this conference room and you won't even fight it.
This is who you are now. This is what you've become. The personal assistant who spreads her legs when her boss decides he wants her. The woman who throws away everything she's worked for because Lando Norris smells good and knows exactly where to put his hands.
"We should," you start, but even you can hear how weak it sounds. How unconvincing.
"Yeah." But he still doesn't move. His eyes are so dark, pupils blown completely wide, and you can see yourself reflected in them, small and desperate and already lost. "We should."
Neither of you move. The moment stretches. You're waiting for him to step back, to release you, to let you salvage some microscopic shred of dignity. His gaze drops to your mouth and stays there. You watch his throat work when he swallows, the muscle in his jaw ticks. His fingers flex against your back, pressing in hard like he's restraining himself.
"Lando."
"I know." Finally, fucking finally, he steps back. Cold air rushes in where his body was and you almost whimper at the loss. "Debrief, yeah, it's fine, professional. We're professional." He runs a hand through his hair and it sticks up at odd angles. His shirt is wrinkled where your fists were twisted in the fabric. There's color high on his cheekbones, his neck.
You definitely look worse.
"You've got—" He reaches out and his thumb brushes your cheekbone. "Your makeup's smudged."
His touch is gentle but your skin feels like it's burning. You step sideways along the glass wall, putting distance between you, and your legs are shaking so badly you're amazed you're still standing.
"I'll fix it in the bathroom."`
"Yeah. Good. That's—yeah." He's staring at you like he's forgotten how to form sentences. "A good idea."
You smooth down your skirt with trembling hands. Your underwear is definitely ruined, you can feel how wet you are, slick and uncomfortable and god, you need to get out of this room before you do something stupid like beg him to finish what he started.
"I'll see you at the debrief," you manage.
"Yeah."
You make it to the door on shaking legs. Your hand is on the handle when he speaks again. "Hey."
You don't turn around. You can't turn around because if you look at him right now, you'll do something irreversible.
"This isn't over," he says quietly. "Just so you know."
Your fingers tighten on the door handle. "Lando."
"It's not." His voice is closer now. You feel him behind you, not touching but close enough that heat radiates between you. "I'm not going to push, but I'm not going to pretend that didn't just happen either."
You open the door and walk out without looking back, even though every nerve in your body is screaming at you to stay. The bathroom mirror shows exactly how fucked you are. Your makeup is smudged under one eye. Your lips are swollen like you've been biting them—you have been biting them. There are marks on your jaw, faint red patches where his stubble scraped against your skin. Your hair is messed up on one side. You look like you've been thoroughly compromised in a conference room.
You wet a paper towel and try to fix the damage, but your hands won't stop shaking. The cold water helps and you press wet palms to your cheeks, your neck, trying to calm the heat still racing through your body.
"Fuck," you whisper to no one.
Your reflection, however, doesn't provide any answers.
The debrief room is smaller than the conference room, it houses a table that seats maybe eight people, and when you walk in, Jon's already there, scrolling through his tablet. Zak's on a call in the corner. A few engineers you recognize but can't name, and Lando, sitting in the middle, looking completely normal, completely unphased.
He glances up when you enter and his face gives nothing away, like twenty minutes ago he didn't have you pinned against glass, asking you questions that made your brain melt.
"Hey," he says, easy and casual. "Saved you a seat." He taps the seat next to him and you want to barf. Instead, you sit your ass down and pull out your tablet. Your hands have stopped shaking. Your heartbeat has returned to normal. You've got this. You're totally, completely, fine.
Jon starts the debrief, pulling up performance data on the screen at the front of the room. Lando leans back in his chair, arms crossed, nodding along to whatever Jon's saying. He asks a question about the downforce. Proceeds to make a joke about Oscar's setup from the previous season and everyone laughs. He's completely normal, and a part of you is starting to think maybe you imagined the whole thing in the conference room when his hand lands on your thigh.
Not high up. Just above your knee, right over your skirt. Completely innocent if anyone looked. Except, his thumb has started moving in small circles. They're slow and deliberate, and the fabric of your skirt is thin enough that you can feel the heat of his palm, the exact pressure of each finger.
Your pen immediately stops moving, and while Jon is still talking, Lando continues to nod, asking more questions, all while his thumb keeps drawing circles.
Then his hand slides up, it's just an inch. Then another. Still over your skirt, still looks completely innocent, but it's higher now. Mid-thigh and the circles get wider, his thumb dragging across the fabric, and you can feel the heat spreading up through your body. You try to focus on Jon's words. Something about corner entry, but Lando's pinky finger stretches out, brushing against the inside of your thigh, and your breath stops completely.
His hand slides higher again and you reach down under the table and grab his wrist. Hard, and dig your nails into the flesh as a warning. He doesn't stop. Doesn't even look at you, just keeps nodding along to Jon's analysis, and his hand—his hand keeps fucking moving up, dragging yours with it now, until his fingers are high enough on your thigh that the edge of his pinky brushes against the hem of your skirt where it's ridden up.
"Thoughts on that setup change, Lando?" Jon asks.
"Yeah, makes sense. Should help with the understeer ." His voice is completely steady. His fingers flex against your thigh. "We can test it in the sim tomorrow, see how it feels." His thumb finds bare skin just above where your skirt has shifted, and the touch is like electricity straight up your spine.
You dig your nails harder into his wrist. He just turns his hand in your grip, twisting until his palm is up, and then his fingers thread through yours. Now you're holding hands on your thigh like this is something sweet, something innocent, except his thumb is stroking your bare skin in slow, deliberate circles and you know the fucker wants to go further.
Jon pulls up another slide. Lando shifts in his seat, angling toward you slightly like he's trying to see your tablet better. His knee presses against yours under the table. His fingers are on bare skin, halfway up your thigh, and if anyone looked under this table they'd see exactly what this is.
"What do you think about the tire strategy?" Zak's voice cuts through the haze in your brain.
You force yourself to look at your tablet. Force words to form. "The—uh—the medium-to-hard strategy should work for—"
Lando's thumb presses into the soft skin of your inner thigh and your voice cuts off.
"For the two-stop," you finish, and it comes out breathless.
Zak nods, and Jon begins talking about quali sims. Lando answers something about tire warm-up and his hand shifts higher, taking yours with it, and his pinky finger brushes against the edge of your panties. Your whole body goes rigid and as the fucker continues to talk, his pinky finger traces along the elastic edge of your panties. Then, just then, he hooks his finger under the elastic and pulls it aside.
Just barely. Just enough so that the cool air hits the wetness there, and oh god, you're so wet you can feel it, and his finger is right there, right at the edge, not touching where you need him but so fucking close. You're going to fucking kill him, actually kill him after this meeting.
"That sound good to you?" Jon's looking at you.
You have no fucking idea what he's asking about. "Yes. Sounds—sounds good."
Lando's finger slides through the wetness and you have to turn it into a cough, your hand flying to your mouth.
"You alright?" Zak asks.
"Fine. Sorry. Just," Lando's finger finds your clit and presses, and you actually make a sound, have to disguise it as clearing your throat. "Dry throat."
His finger starts moving in circles. "Someone get her some water," Zak says, and one of the engineers slides a bottle across the table.
You reach for it with your free hand, the one that's not trapped under the table tangled with Lando's while his other hand is between your legs. Your hand is shaking so badly water sloshes out when you try to drink. Lando's finger slides lower, dipping just barely inside you, and your thighs clench around his hand. He pulls back immediately and his thumb goes back to those slow circles on your inner thigh, over your underwear now, completely innocent again.
The message is crystal clear now: Stay still and behave, or I'll stop.
You force your legs to relax. Force yourself to breathe normally and his finger slides back, immediately pushing your underwear aside again, and this time when he touches your clit you manage to stay quiet, stay still, even though everything in your body is screaming.
Jon pulls up sector times. Lando adds commentary about his racing line through turn seven. His finger keeps moving in slow, devastating circles, and you're trying so hard to stay still, to stay quiet, but you're so wet you can hear it, and you're terrified everyone else can hear it too.
"I think we're good for now," Jon finally says. "Same time tomorrow for the sim session?"
"Sounds good." Lando's finger presses harder and you bite your lip so hard you taste blood. "Looking forward to it."
People start standing up, gathering their tablets and personal belongings. Lando's hand disappears from between your legs so fast you almost whimper at the loss, but he's already standing, stretching casually like nothing happened.
Like he didn't just have his fingers on you in a room full of people. Like you're not sitting there soaked and shaking and desperate.
"Right, I'm starving," he announces. "Gonna grab lunch. You coming?" He's looking at you, and his eyes are dark and amused and absolutely wicked. "You look like you could use a break."
You can't speak. Your voice is gone, dissolved somewhere between his finger on your clit and the desperate need still pulsing between your legs.
"I'll take that as a yes." He grabs his phone off the table, slides it into his pocket. "Come on then."
You stand on shaking legs. Your skirt is wrinkled, riding up higher than it should be. You smooth it down with trembling hands and pray no one notices. Jon claps Lando on the shoulder as you both head for the door. "Good session today. See you tomorrow, yeah?"
"Yep, bright and early." Lando's voice is easy, normal. He holds the door open for you and you have to walk past him, close enough to smell his cologne again, and your head swirls.
The hallway is empty, when Lando begins to speak. "You're very quiet," he says, falling into step beside you.
"Still thinking about the meeting?" His voice drops lower. "Or thinking about something else?"
"Fuck you."
"That's more like it." He sounds delighted. "There she is."
You jab the elevator button harder than necessary. The doors slide open immediately and you step inside, pressing yourself against the far wall. He follows, hands in his pockets, looking completely at ease. The doors close. you're finally alone, and you almost expect him to move. To touch you, to try and finish what he started.
He doesn't, instead he just stands there, leaning against the opposite wall, watching you with that infuriating smirk.
"You know what I realized?" he says conversationally.
You don't answer, so he continues. "You never actually answered my question. From before." The elevator descends. "About how long you've wanted to kiss me."
"I'm not doing this right now."
"Not doing what? Having a conversation?" He tilts his head. "I'm just curious. Was it really Barcelona? Or was it before that?"
The elevator reaches the ground floor. The doors open onto the lobby and you practically run out, but he's right behind you, matching your pace easily.
"I'll give you a ride home," he says and it's not a question.
"I have my car."
"Your car's in the shop, remember? That's why you got a ride in with Sarah this morning." He's already walking toward the parking garage. "Come on."
Fuck. He's right. You completely forgot.
"I can get an Uber."
"Don't be ridiculous." He glances back over his shoulder. "Unless you're scared to be alone in a car with me?"
You're not scared, you're fucking terrified. But not for the reasons he's implying. So, you do the totally sane thing, and follow him into the parking garage. When you get to his Lamborghini Urus, he opens the passenger door for you and the leather seat is cold against the back of your thighs where your skirt has ridden up.
Where his hand was ten minutes ago. He slides into the driver's seat and the engine roars to life, all that power barely contained. The sound vibrates through your chest, through your bones.
"Seatbelt," he says, glancing over. You fumble with it while he pulls out of the parking garage and the silence is suffocating. You can hear every breath, every small shift of fabric. The gear shift is right there, his hand wrapped around it, and you're staring at his fingers, remembering exactly how they felt. He reaches forward and turns on the music. The volume is just loud enough that conversation would be difficult, and you're grateful for it because you have no idea what you'd even say.
His hand rests on the gear shift. So close to your thigh, yet, he doesn't budge. Doesn't make a single move to touch you.
The city passes by in a blur. Streetlights and pedestrians and other cars, but all you can focus on is him. The way his jaw clenches slightly when he shifts gears. The way his fingers drum against the leather. The way he's so completely calm while you're falling apart in the passenger seat. Your underwear is still wet. You can feel it every time you shift in your seat, a constant reminder of what he did to you, what he didn't finish.
He pulls up in front of your building and puts the car in park but doesn't turn off the engine. It idles, a low purr that you can feel everywhere. He turns the volume down slowly, and the silence that follows is deafening.
You reach for the door handle.
"Hey."
You stop, not looking at him.
"Look at me."
You do. You shouldn't, but you do. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, and there's something predatory in the way he's looking at you, like he's starving.
"You did really well in there," he says, voice low. "Staying quiet. Staying still." His tongue flicks across his bottom lip and your eyes track the movement. "It was very impressive."
Heat floods through you, pooling between your already-soaked thighs.
"Lando."
"When you get home," He leans slightly toward you. "When you're alone in your apartment, and you're thinking about what happened in that meeting."
"I won't."
"You will be." He's certain, so fucking sure of himself, it's insufferable. "And when you are, when you're touching yourself because you're so desperate you can't help it," His eyes drop to your thighs, then back to your face. "I want you to think about what would've happened if Jon hadn't knocked. If I'd had more time with you."
Your breath catches.
"Think about where my fingers would've gone. What I would've done to you in that conference room where anyone could've caught us." He reaches out and his thumb brushes across your bottom lip, the same way it did earlier, and your whole body responds. "Think about how quiet you would've had to stay while I made you come."
You're going to die. You're actually going to die right here in his passenger seat.
"Go inside," he says softly, pulling his hand back. "I'll see you tomorrow."
"You're—you can't just."
"Can't what?" That infuriating smirk is back. "Drive you home? I actually think I deserve a thank you."
You want to hit him. Want to kiss him. Want to pull him into your apartment and finish what he started. Instead, you get out of the car on shaking legs. He waits until you're at the door of your building before he drives off, engine growling as he disappears down the street.
You make it inside. Into the elevator. Into your apartment. You close the door and lean back against it, breathing hard. You head straight to your bedroom, already knowing exactly what you're about to do.
Hating that he knew it too, hating even more that he's right.
The rest of the week passes in agonizing normalcy. Lando shows up to the sim session on time, professional, focused. He discusses setup changes with the engineers like an actual adult. He doesn't call you at 3 AM. Doesn't text you anything inappropriate. Doesn't even look at you for longer than strictly necessary.
The night before you leave for Japan, you're in your apartment packing. Business casual for the events, comfortable clothes for the paddock, the McLaren team jacket that's mandatory for all personnel. You fold everything, checking items off your list.
Your phone sits on the bed, silent. Lando and Oscar are flying out on the McLaren private jet early tomorrow morning, 5 AM departure from Farnborough. You're on the commercial flight, business class, leaving three hours later from Heathrow. It's always been like this. The drivers get the PJ, the key personnel fly commercial but comfortable. You've made peace with it. It's not like you expected to be on the plane with them.
Except now you can't stop thinking about it. Lando in those grey joggers he always wears on flights. Lando stretched out across the leather seats, probably playing strip pocker with Oscar or watching old race footage. Lando twelve hours ahead of you, already in Tokyo while you're stuck in business class somewhere over Russia.
You zip your suitcase closed harder than necessary. This is stupid. You've done this a hundred times. Flown separately, met them at the hotel, had everything coordinated and ready by the time they arrived. It's your job. It's fine.
Heathrow at 8 AM is its own circle of hell. Security lines, overpriced coffee, flight delays announced in monotone over the intercom. You make it to your gate with twenty minutes to spare and find a seat near the window. Lando posted an Instagram story three hours ago, you saw it while brushing your teeth this morning, him and Oscar on the jet, Oscar sleeping with his mouth open. The caption said something about being ready for Japan.
You pull out your tablet and go through Lando's schedule one more time. Thursday: arrival, settle in, team dinner. Friday: media day, practice sessions, sponsor meet-and-greet. Saturday: quali, another sponsor event. Sunday: race.
You pull out your laptop. Open Lando's schedule again, stare at it without seeing it. Somewhere over the North Sea, you close the laptop. Somewhere over Poland, you lean your head against the window and watch clouds drift past.
This is unattainable. Whatever happened in that conference room, whatever almost happened before Jon knocked—it was a moment. A lapse in judgment. Lando Norris doesn't date his assistant. Doesn't have relationships with employees. He has models and influencers and people who exist in his world, not people who coordinate his calendar and fix his disasters.
Somewhere over Russia, you recline your seat and close your eyes. You don't think about Lando stretched out on the private jet. You don't think about his hand on your thigh in that meeting. You don't think about how his fingers felt or how his voice sounded when he told you to think about him. You don't think about any of it.
You're lying, but at least there's no one here to call you on it.
Japan is humid and overwhelming and beautiful. You arrive at the hotel Thursday afternoon, jet-lagged and exhausted. Lando and Oscar got in hours ago, you saw them in the lobby when you were checking in, surrounded by team personnel and looking refreshed in that way people who fly private always do.
The team dinner that night is at some expensive restaurant in Shibuya. You sit at the far end of the table, taking notes on your phone about schedule changes for tomorrow. Lando's four seats down, laughing at something Oscar said, drinking water because he's being responsible before a race weekend.
He doesn't look at you once, and when Friday rolls around, you're busy from 6 AM. Coordinating with the press officers, making sure Lando hits all his media obligations, adjusting timing when an interview runs long. You see him in passing and catch up to him.
"You've got Sky Sports in ten," you tell him between sessions.
"Yep, cheers." He doesn't break stride, already walking toward the media pen with his PR officer.
You stand there in the paddock, tablet in hand, and watch him go. This is your job. This is what you do during race weekends. You're not an engineer, not a trainer, not someone who's essential to the actual racing. You coordinate. You schedule. You make sure he's where he needs to be, when he needs to be there. The rest of the time, you're just there.
You're updating his schedule for next week. This is fine. This is normal. This is every race weekend. Except you keep catching yourself watching the timing screens. Watching his sector times. Watching the little dot that represents his car going round and round the circuit. FP1 goes smoothly. FP2 has a small lock-up in turn one but nothing serious. You see him briefly when he comes back to the garage, he's talking to his engineer, analyzing data, completely in the zone.
Friday night you have dinner alone in your hotel room. Room service, ESPN playing race coverage on the TV, your laptop open with his schedule for tomorrow. Saturday is qualifying and the energy in the paddock is different. Higher stakes with more tension. You do your job, make sure he's at the pre-quali briefing, coordinate with media for post-quali interviews, confirm timing for the sponsor appearance later.
You watch qualifying from the garage. He puts it P4. Good, but not great. He's frustrated when he comes back, you can see it in the set of his jaw, the way he pulls off his helmet.
"P4's solid," his engineer says.
"Should've been P2." Lando's already reviewing the data, pointing at the screen. "Lost time in sector two, if I'd just—"
On Sunday, the paddock is chaos, there's camera crews everywhere, fans pressed against the barriers, the energy electric and overwhelming. You've been awake since 5 AM coordinating last-minute changes, confirming grid walk timing, making sure everything runs smoothly. You see Lando in the garage during the pre-race prep. He's in his race suit, going through his routine with Jon. Stretching, visualization, the same ritual he does before every race.
The race starts and you watch from the garage, headset on so you can hear the team radio. Lando gets a good start, gains a position into turn one. P3.
"Good job, Lando, P3, keep it clean," his engineer says over the radio.
You watch the monitors. Watch his lap times. Watch the gap to the car ahead.
"DRS enabled," the engineer says. "Let's get him this lap."
You hold your breath. He's through turn one clean, right behind Leclerc. Turn two he's on the inside, they're side by side through the corner and then the radio crackles.
"Fuck—I'm okay, I'm okay—fuck—"
Your heart stops. The screen shows it in slow motion. Lando and Leclerc side by side, Lando on the inside, not enough space, the Ferrari comes across and Lando's got nowhere to go. He clips the Ferrari's rear tire and suddenly he's spinning, out of control, and then the sickening crunch of carbon fiber hitting the barrier. Hard.
The car bounces off the wall and slides back onto the track, rear end destroyed, front wing gone, debris everywhere. Red flag. The screen shows the wreckage and your stomach drops.
"Are you okay?" his engineer asks urgently. "Lando, are you okay?"
The relief hits you so hard your knees almost give out. He's fine. He's talking. He's fine. The medical car is already there. You watch on the monitor as Lando climbs out, waving to show he's okay. But the way he rips off his helmet, the way he stalks away from the car tells a different story.
"He's going to medical, can you ask if he still wants to do the interviews?" Zak calls out to you, and you nod. It's standard procedure for crashes that hard.
You're moving toward the medical center. The paddock is chaos, there's people rushing past, radios crackling, camera crews trying to get footage. You push through it all, heart still pounding, the image of that crash replaying in your head. The medical center is quiet compared to outside. Lando's sitting on an examination table, still in his race suit, unzipped to the waist. There's a medical officer checking his shoulder, asking him questions about pain levels and range of motion.
"I'm fine," Lando says, and his voice is sharp. "It's fine, I'm fine."
You hover in the doorway. His hair is a mess from the helmet, sweat-damp and sticking up. There's a red mark on his cheekbone from where the helmet pressed during impact.
"They want to know if you're up for interviews," you say, keeping your voice professional. Steady. "Zak is asking, and there's the post-race media obligation but I can push it if you need."
"If I need?" He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "If I need time because I just binned it into a wall?"
"That's not what I said."
"I'm fine. I'll do the fucking interviews." He shrugs off the medical officer's hand. "I'm cleared, yeah?"
"You should really—" the medical officer starts.
"I'm cleared." It's not a question.
The officer sighs. "You're cleared. But you need to take care of that shoulder."
Lando's already sliding off the table, pulling his race suit back up, zipping it roughly. His hands are shaking. You can see it even though he's trying to hide it.
"Lando."
"What?" He rounds on you and his eyes are too bright, too intense. He's angry. You freeze and the words die in your throat because you don't actually know what you were going to say. That you're worried? That he doesn't have to do this? That seeing him crash made your heart stop?
"Nothing, I just—"
"Good." He's already moving past you, yanking the door open. "Let's go." He storms out into the paddock and you're left standing there in the too-bright medical room, watching him disappear into the chaos. You follow at a distance. Watch him walk through the paddock with his shoulders tight, his jaw set. People try to stop him, but he keeps moving, heading straight for the media pen.
Sky Sports is first. You stand just out of frame, watching him put on the professional face. The interviewer asks the standard questions, what happened, are you okay, thoughts on the incident. "Yeah, just racing," Lando says, and his voice is perfectly controlled. Perfectly fine. "Leclerc and I both going for the position, unfortunately we came together. That's racing sometimes. Just gutted for the team, they've worked so hard and we've thrown away good points today."
He says all the right things. Smiles at the right moments. Thanks the team, thanks the fans, talks about bouncing back next week. When he finally finishes the last interview, he walks straight past you without a word. Doesn't even look at you, just heads toward the McLaren garage, and you know he's going to debrief with the engineers, review the data, analyze what went wrong.
You stand there in the media pen, holding your tablet, and realize that the distance he's been keeping all week—the politeness, the normalcy, the acting like nothing happened, wasn't him moving on.
It was him holding on by a thread and that thread just snapped.
You give him two hours. Two hours to debrief with the team, to shower, to decompress. Two hours before you show up at his hotel room with the schedule changes for next week that absolutely cannot wait until tomorrow because there are flights to coordinate and sponsor obligations to reschedule.
Upon entering the hotel, you head to the front desk.
"Good evening, I need access to Lando Norris's suite," you tell the receptionist. "I'm his assistant." She checks her computer, verifies your credentials in the system. As his PA, you're listed as authorized personnel, can access his room for deliveries, coordination, emergencies. It's standard practice and makes the logistics easier during race weekends.
She hands you a key card. "Fortieth floor. Suite 4012."
The elevator ride up feels endless. Your tablet is clutched against your chest, the schedule changes pulled up on the screen. This is fine. This is professional. You coordinate with him in hotel rooms all the time during race weekends, it's easier than trying to find quiet spaces in the paddock. The fortieth floor hallway is quiet, the plush carpet muffles your footsteps and you find Suite 4012 at the very end.
You knock, and no answer. So, you knock again, and again. "Lando? I need to go over the schedule changes."
Still nothing. Here goes nothing. You swipe the key card and the lock clicks open, you push the door open and step inside. The suite is massive, there's a living area with large windows that overlook Tokyo, a separate bedroom through an open doorway, a bathroom, and a McLaren team jacket thrown over the back of the couch, his shoes kicked off by the door.
"Lando?" you call out. "I texted you, I need to—"
That's when you hear the sound from the bedroom. Low and rough and—oh god. Your brain catches up to what you're hearing a second too late. The kind of breathing that's unmistakable. The kind of sound that makes heat flood through your entire body. He's jerking off, oh my fucking god.
Another sound, a groan, muffled like he's trying to stay quiet, and your mouth goes dry.
You should leave. You need to leave right now. "Fuck—" His voice carries through the open bedroom door, rough and desperate, and something low in your belly clenches so hard you have to grab the back of the couch.
Leave. Leave now. But you can hear him so clearly. Can hear the rhythm of his breathing, getting faster. Can hear the slick sound of his cock, and your feet are suddenly planted, unwilling to move.
Jesus Christ. Your face is on fire. Your whole body is on fire. You're frozen in his living room listening to your boss getting himself off and you need to leave, you need to fucking leave.
"Fuck," he groans again, and then your name. Your name, breathless and desperate on his tongue and so fucking clear there's no mistaking it. He's saying your name, repeating it like it's the only thing getting him through this. "Please," His voice breaks on the word. "Fuck, please."
You're going to die. You're going to die right here in his hotel suite listening to him fall apart while thinking about you. The sounds get more desperate. His breathing harsher, you can hear the rustle of sheets, the creak of the bed, and your imagination is filling in all the details, his hand wrapped around his cock, his head thrown back, his abs flexing with each movement.
"God—fuck—" Another groan, louder this time, and you realize he's close. God, he's about to fucking come and he's saying your name. You hear him gasp your name one more time, broken and raw, and then a string of curses as he comes.
The silence that follows is deafening. You stand there trying to steady yourself as your heart pounds so hard you can hear it in your ears. Your underwear is soaked, your whole body is shaking. You turn toward the door, moving too fast, and your hip catches the edge of the side table. The decorative vase on top wobbles, you reach for it but your hands are shaking too badly, and it tips over the edge. The crash is deafening in the quiet suite. Glass shattering against the floor, water spreading across the floor, flowers scattering everywhere.
"Fuck," you breathe.
Complete silence from the bedroom. Then—"Who's there?" Accompanied by footsteps, rapidly increasing. You freeze, staring at the broken vase, at the mess spreading across the floor. There's nowhere to go. The door is ten feet away but he's already on the way. Then, in a matter of seconds, Lando appears in the bedroom doorway. He's in grey joggers, no shirt, hair an absolute mess. His face is flushed, his chest still rising and falling rapidly. His eyes are wide, startled and then he sees you.
You watch the realization hit him. Watch his expression shift from confusion to shock to something that might be horror. "How long—" His voice is rough, wrecked. "How long have you been here?"
You can't speak. Can't move, you can only stand there surrounded by broken glass and spilled water while your face burns and your heart tries to break out of your chest. His eyes drop to the mess on the floor, then back to your face. You watch him put it together, the broken vase, your expression, the way you can't look at him. "Oh fuck." He runs both hands through his hair. "Fuck. You—how much did you hear?"
"I'm sorry." Your voice comes out strangled. "I knocked, you didn't answer, I needed to—the schedule changes, I just—I'm sorry, I'll go."
"Don't." He crosses the room in three strides, making sure to avoid the glass splattered across the floor. "Don't move, you'll, there's glass everywhere."
He's right in front of you now and you can smell him, sweat and something else, and you know what that something else is and you're going to die. "How much did you hear?" He asks again, and his voice is quiet now, serious.
"Nothing, it's fine, I just got here."
"Oh my god." He starts laughing and it's that Lando laugh, the one that makes his whole face light up even though this is absolutely not funny. "Oh my god, you totally heard it. Look at your face, you're so red right now."
"I'm not."
"You are, you're like, properly red. That's amazing." He's still laughing, running a hand through his hair. "This is the worst thing that's ever happened to me, by the way. Worse than the crash, significantly worse than the crash."
Despite everything, you feel a laugh bubble up in your chest. "It's fine, I'll just, I'll help you clean this up and we can forget it ever happened."
"Yeah?" He's grinning now, and there's something dangerous in it. Something that makes your stomach flip. "Just forget about it?"
"Completely."
"Right, because you're so good at forgetting things." He moves toward the bedroom to grab something to clean with. "Very convincing." You crouch down and start picking up the larger pieces of glass, trying to focus on anything other than what just happened. The flowers are scattered everywhere, water soaking into the expensive carpet.
He comes back with a towel and crouches down across from you. That's when you see the dark spot on the grey fabric of his joggers. A wet patch near the hem, and your brain immediately supplies exactly what that is, and heat floods through your entire body. He follows your gaze. Looks down. Looks back up at you with that fucking grin.
"See something interesting?"
Your face is on fire. "No."
"No?" He shifts slightly and the fabric pulls tighter. "You sure about that?"
"I'm just cleaning up the glass."
"While staring at my crotch, yeah, very subtle." He's laughing again as he picks up a piece of glass. "You're terrible at this."
"At cleaning?"
"At pretending." He wraps the glass in the towel. "At acting like you're not affected."
"I'm not affected."
"Yeah? Then why are you shaking?"
You look down. Your hands are trembling. "I'm not—"
"You are." He reaches across the mess and catches your wrist, stilling your hand. His fingers are warm and sure and you can feel your pulse hammering against his touch. "You're shaking. Your face is red, and you can't stop looking at me."
"That's not true."
"And you heard me say your name." His thumb presses against your pulse point. "Didn't you?"
The air feels too thick. Too hot, and suddenly you can't breathe properly. "Lando."
"Tell me you didn't hear that and I'll drop it right now." His eyes are locked on yours. "Tell me you don't know exactly what I was thinking about." You can't, can't lie, can't say it because you did hear it, and you do know, and your entire body is screaming at you to close the distance between you.
"That's what I thought." He lets go of your wrist and sits back on his heels. "So no, I don't think we're going to forget about this.
"We have to."
"Why?" He tilts his head, watching you. "Give me one good reason why we have to pretend this didn't happen."
"Because you're—" You stop yourself.
"I'm what? Your boss?" He laughs. "Yeah, we've established that's not stopping anything in the conference room. Try again."
You can't think of anything. Your brain has completely shut down, and he stands up, glass crunching under his trainers, and that's when you see it properly. The grey joggers are doing absolutely nothing to hide how hard he is. The outline is obscene, obvious, and he catches you looking.
"Yeah." His voice is rough. "That's what you do to me. That's what you've been doing to me for months."
"So here's what's going to happen." He takes a step toward you, and there's something predatory in the movement. "I'm going to be very clear with you because apparently subtle isn't working."
Another step and suddenly you're backed up against the wall. "I want to fuck you. Right now. Here." His eyes are locked on yours, dark and intense and completely serious. "Not date you, not take you to dinner, not have some long conversation about feelings and what this means."
He braces a hand against the wall next to your head. "I want you right fucking now. Tonight, and then we'll go back to normal tomorrow and pretend this never happened if that's what you want." His other hand comes up, fingers brushing against your jaw. "You can take it or leave it. But I need an answer right now because I'm losing my mind here."
Your heart is slamming against your ribs. Your whole body is screaming yes, take it, stop thinking.
"Lando."
"Yes or no." His thumb brushes across your bottom lip. "That's all I need. One word, just tell me one word."
"Yes."
The word barely leaves your mouth before he's on you. His lips crash against yours, hard and desperate, and there's absolutely nothing gentle about it. One hand tangles in your hair, the other grabs your hip and pulls you flush against him. You can feel how hard he is, pressed against your stomach, and the sound he makes when you gasp is absolutely obscene.
"Fuck—" He breaks the kiss just long enough to breathe. His mouth is back on yours, tongue sliding past your lips, and your hands find his bare shoulders, nails digging in. He tastes like mint and desperation and something that's just him, then, he presses you harder against the wall, his hips grinding into yours, and you can feel his cock through the thin fabric of his joggers. The heat of him, the hard length of his cock, and when he rolls his hips again you actually moan into his mouth.
"That's it," he breathes against your lips. "Wanna hear you."
His hand slides from your hip to your thigh, pushing your skirt up. His palm is rough and hot against your bare skin, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. He hooks your leg over his hip and grinds against you properly now, right where you need him, and the friction is perfect and not nearly enough.
"You're so fucking—" He breaks off with a groan, burying his face in your neck. His teeth scrape against your pulse point and you arch into him. "So fucking perfect."
His hand slides higher, fingers brushing against the edge of your underwear, and you actually whimper.
"These need to come off," he mutters against your skin. "Everything needs to come off. Right fucking now." He pulls back just enough to look at you and his eyes are absolutely feral. His hair is a mess from your hands, his lips red and swollen, his chest heaving.
"Bedroom," he says. "Now. Unless you want me to fuck you against this wall where anyone could hear."
Your brain has completely short-circuited. You can only nod, and his grin is wicked. "Good." He grabs your hand and pulls you toward the bedroom. The bedroom is dark except for the city lights, Tokyo glitters forty floors below, completely oblivious. The bed is unmade, sheets tangled, and you can see exactly where he was lying when you walked in. He spins you around and his mouth is on yours again, walking you backwards toward the bed. His hands are everywhere, your waist, your hips, sliding up your ribs to cup your jaw. When the back of your knees hit the mattress, he pushes you down.
You land on the sheets and they smell like him, and your brain supplies the image of what he was doing here twenty minutes ago and heat floods through you. He's standing over you, chest heaving, and his eyes drag down your body slowly. Your skirt is rucked up around your thighs. Your shirt is wrinkled from his hands. You're a mess and he's looking at you like you're something he wants to destroy.
"Take off your shirt," he says. Your hands are shaking but you reach for the buttons. He watches every single one come undone, and when you shrug it off his jaw clenches. "Skirt too." You shimmy it down your hips and kick it off, and now you're in just your bra and underwear and his eyes are so dark they're almost black.
"Fuck." He runs a hand over his mouth. "You're so," he stops himself, shakes his head. "Lie back."
You do and the sheets are cool against your overheated skin. He hooks his fingers in his joggers and pulls them down, and oh god. He's not wearing anything underneath. His cock springs free, hard and flushed and already leaking, and you can't stop staring.
You let out a soft whimper, and Lando knows he’s gotten you right where he wants you. His cock aches, he’s so hard for you.
"See something you like?" There's that cocky grin, but his voice is strained. He climbs onto the bed, settles between your legs, and the weight of him is perfect. His hands bracket your head and he leans down, nose brushing against yours.
"Last chance," he murmurs. "Say no and we stop."
"Hell no." He kisses you again, slower this time, deeper. His hips roll against yours and you can feel him, hot and hard against your soaked underwear, the friction makes you gasp into his mouth. His hand slides down your side, over your ribs, your waist, your hip. His fingers hook in the elastic of your panties.
"These are ruined," he says against your mouth. "Absolutely soaked. Were you this wet when you were listening to me?" Your face burns but you can't deny it.
"Thought so." He drags your underwear down slowly, tossing them somewhere off the bed. His hand comes back up, palm sliding up the inside of your thigh, and when his fingers finally touch you, you both groan. "Fuck, you're so wet." He circles your clit once, twice, and your hips buck up. "This all for me?"
"Lando," you moan out.
"Answer the question." His fingers slide lower, teasing. "Is this from listening to me? Or from thinking about what I was saying?"
"Both," you gasp.
"Good answer." He pushes one finger inside you and your back arches off the bed. "So tight baby. Fuck, you're going to feel so good on my cock." He adds a second finger, curling them just right, and his thumb finds your clit. The combination makes you see stars.
"That's it," he breathes, watching your face. "Want to see you come before I fuck you. Want to watch you fall apart." His fingers move faster, harder, and you're already so worked up from earlier that you're embarrassingly close.
"Come on," he murmurs, leaning down to bite at your neck. "Let me hear you. No one's going to interrupt us this time." That does it and you come hard around his fingers, gasping his name, and he works you through it until you're shaking. You're seeing stars, and he continues to rub on your clit.
"Fuck, that was beautiful." He pulls his fingers out and you watch him bring them to his mouth, licking them clean. "Taste even better than I imagined." He reaches over to the nightstand, fumbling for a condom. His hands are shaking as he rolls it on.
"You ready?" His voice is rough, barely controlled.
You nod and he lines himself up and pushes in slowly, and the stretch is intense, perfect, everything. Your nails dig into his shoulders and he groans, dropping his forehead to yours. "Fuck—so tight," he's barely halfway in. "You okay?"
"Yes—don't stop, fuck, fuck," you moan. He pushes in further, inch by inch, until he's fully seated inside you. You both freeze, breathing hard.
"Need a second," he grits out. "Or this is going to be over waaay too fast." You can feel him shaking, the tension in every muscle as he holds himself still. You open your mouth to speak, but Lando stops you, "Give me a second—" He laughs, breathless. "This is embarrassing. I'm not usually, fuck, you just feel so good."
You roll your hips experimentally and he actually gasps. "Don't—if you do that I'm going to actualy cum."
You do it again, and he takes a deep breath before smiling. "Fuck it." He starts moving, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in, and the pace is brutal and perfect and exactly what you need.
He drives into you harder and you actually cry out. "That's it. Want everyone in this hotel to hear you." His hand grabs your thigh, hiking your leg higher over his hip so he can go deeper. "Want them to know exactly what I'm doing to you." Each thrust hits something inside you that makes your vision blur. Your nails drag down his back, definitely leaving marks, and he groans.
"Mark me up," he breathes against your neck. "Want to see it tomorrow. Want to remember this." His mouth finds yours again, messy and desperate. All teeth and tongue and gasping breaths between kisses. His hand slides between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, and the dual sensation makes you clench around him.
"Oh fuck—" His rhythm stutters. "Do that again." You clench deliberately and he actually growls, hips snapping harder. "You're going to make me come if you keep doing that." His thumb circles your clit faster. "But you're coming first. Want to feel you come on my cock."
The praise combined with his fingers on your clit and the relentless pace of his hips pushes you right to the edge. "Come for me," he demands. "Want to feel it. Come on, baby."
You shatter, clenching around him so hard he chokes on a moan. Your whole body goes rigid, pleasure crashing through you in waves, and you can hear yourself crying out his name but you can't stop. "Fuck—fuck," He slams into you twice more, rhythm gone completely, and then he's coming too, face buried in your neck, saying your name over and over like a prayer.
He collapses on top of you, both of you breathing hard, sweat-slicked and shaking. You can feel his heart pounding against your chest, matching your own racing pulse. After a moment he lifts his head, looking down at you. His hair is completely destroyed, his face flushed, lips swollen from kissing. He looks absolutely wrecked.
"That was—" He stops, laughs breathlessly. "Yeah. That was nuts."
"Yeah," you agree, because you can't form actual words yet.
He pulls out carefully and you both wince. He ties off the condom and tosses it, then collapses back onto the bed next to you, one arm thrown over his eyes. "Give me like, ten minutes," he says. "And then we're doing that again."
"Ten minutes?"
You laugh despite yourself, and he rolls toward you, hand finding your hip. "Stay," he says, and there's something vulnerable in it. "Tonight. Please, stay."
You should say no. Should get dressed, have that conversation about the schedule, go back to your own hotel room and pretend this was just a one-time thing. But his hand is warm on your hip and Tokyo is glittering outside the windows and you're not ready for this to be over yet.
The following morning, you wake up to sunlight streaming through windows and the immediate, horrifying realization that you're naked in Lando Norris's bed. Your body aches. That's the first thing you notice, a deep, satisfying soreness in your thighs, your hips, between your legs. The second thing you notice is the evidence scattered across your skin like a crime scene. Bruises on your hips, dark purple fingerprints that you can count. Marks on your thighs. Your neck.
There are scratches down your own arms from where you clawed at yourself, at him, at the sheets. You don't remember doing that but the evidence doesn't lie. The third thing you notice is Lando, still asleep beside you. Face-down in the pillow, one arm stretched across where you were lying moments ago. His back is a mess of red lines from your nails, and there's a bite mark on his shoulder that looks almost violent in the morning light.
7:43 AM
Shit. His flight to the next race is at noon. You have meetings scheduled, his entire day planned down to the minute. You slip out of bed as quietly as possible, gathering your clothes from where they're scattered across the floor. Your shirt is wrinkled beyond repair. Your underwear is, well it's somewhere. After looking for about three minutes, you find your skirt under the bed.
"Where are you going?"
His voice is rough with sleep, and it does something to you. Makes heat pool low in your belly even though you're sore, even though you should not be thinking about this right now. You turn and he's propped up on one elbow, watching you with heavy-lidded eyes. His hair is sticking up in every direction.
"I have to, Lando, we have an entire schedule to go over. Your flight's at noon."
"So we have time." He pats the bed next to him. "Come back."
"Lando."
"Five more minutes," he murmurs, and suddenly you're against him, his body solid and warm against your back. His arm drapes over your waist, hand splaying across your stomach possessively.
You know this is a bad idea, horrible, idea. But goddamn it, you just can't bring yourself to say no to him. So, you drop your clothes and climb back into bed. He immediately pulls you against him, warm and solid, and presses a kiss to your shoulder.
This feels different than last night. Last night was frantic, desperate, angry almost. This feels completely dangerous in a different way. "We can't," you begin.
"We already did," he points out, and you can hear the smile in his voice. "Multiple times, if I remember correctly."
Your face burns. You do remember. You remember all of it, every touch, every word, every time he made you come until you couldn't think straight. "That's not what I meant."
"Then what did you mean?" His hand slides down, fingers tracing the marks he left on your hip. "Because it seems pretty clear what happened here."
You should move, you need to move, get dressed, re-establish the professional boundary that you obliterated last night. But his hand is moving lower, thumb brushing the crease where your thigh meets your hip, and your body is already responding. Traitor.
"We said one night," you manage, but your voice is weak.
"Did we?" His lips brush against your shoulder, exactly where he bit you last night. The mark is still there. "I don't remember saying that."
"You said," What did he say? You can't remember. Can't think when his hand is moving like that, when you can feel him hardening against your ass.
"I said a lot of things last night," he murmurs against your skin. "You want me to repeat them? Because I remember you really liked it when I said—"
"Don't," you interrupt, squeezing your eyes shut. You don't need him to repeat it. You remember. God, you remember the filthy things he said, the way his voice got rough and demanding. His hand slides between your thighs and you're already wet. Already ready for him even though you're sore, even though this is a terrible idea.
"You're thinking too much," he says, and there's that insufferable knowing tone. Like he can read your mind, like he knows exactly what you're spiraling about. Maybe he does. Maybe you're that obvious. His fingers find your clit and you gasp, hips jerking involuntarily. He makes a satisfied sound, like he's proven something.
"See? Your body knows what it wants even if your brain won't shut up about it." You want to argue but he's circling your clit now, slow and deliberate, and all the arguments die in your throat.
"We have—" you try, "—there's the schedule—"
"Tell me my schedule then," he says, and you can hear the challenge in it, the fuckning amusement. This is a game to him. This is always a game.
"Checkout is at eleven," His finger slides lower, teasing. "Car to the airport at eleven-thirty." He slides two fingers inside you and your words dissolve into a moan. You're so wet, so ready, and it should be embarrassing how easily your body opens for him.
"Keep going," he encourages, and his free hand comes up to cup your breast, thumb circling your nipple. "What else?" You're not going to be able to do this. Can't focus when he's touching you like this, when pleasure is already building low in your belly.
"You have—fuck—you have a call with sponsors at two."
"Uh-huh." He curls his fingers and finds that spot inside you that makes you see stars. "What time are we landing?"
"I can't," you gasp, grinding back against his hand. You need more, need him to move faster, but he's taking his time. Torturing you.
"You can," he says firmly. "You're good at this, remember? You know my schedule better than I do." His fingers pump slowly, deliberately, never quite enough to get you there. His thumb finds your clit again, pressing in rhythm with his fingers, and you're going to die. You're going to die right here in his hotel bed because Lando Norris won't stop touching you.
"Media obligations, Thursday morning," you're grinding against his hand now, chasing the orgasm that's just out of reach. "Prep for, oh god, oh my fuuuucking god."
"Keep going," he murmurs against your neck. You can feel him smiling.
"Practice Friday, quali Saturday," Your voice is barely recognizable, high and desperate. "Lando."
"Good girl," he praises, and those two words combined with his fingers curling inside you push you right to the edge. "What else?" You can't think. Can't remember. Can't do anything but feel, his fingers inside you, his thumb on your clit, his body solid and hot behind you, his voice in your ear telling you how good you are, how well you take it.
Your phone buzzes again. Multiple times. Insistent and reality tries to crash back in but Lando doesn't stop, doesn't slow down.
"That's," you gasp, "that's probably Zak."
"Probably," he agrees, and his fingers move faster. "But you're not done yet."
"I need to, fuck, I need to answer."
"After," he says firmly, and adds a third finger. The stretch is perfect and terrible and you're so close, grinding back against his hand shamelessly now. You should be embarrassed by the wet sounds, by how desperate you are, but you can't bring yourself to care.
"Come for me," he says, voice dropping into that commanding tone that makes everything in you tighten. "Come on my fingers and then you can go be responsible." His thumb presses hard against your clit and that's it, you're coming, clenching around his fingers, gasping his name into the pillow while he works you through it. He doesn't stop until you're shaking, pushing his hand away because it's too much.
When you can breathe again, when your heart stops trying to break out of your chest, you become aware of several things at once: Your phone is still buzzing, Lando's still hard against your ass. You just let him finger you while quizzing you about his schedule. You are so unbearably fucked.
"Better?" he asks, and you can hear the smug satisfaction in his voice.
Your phone is still buzzing and you grab it with shaking hands. There's three texts from Zak. Two from the PR team. One from logistics asking about Lando's luggage. Fuck, fuck, you're going to get fucking fired.
"Shit. I need to—I have to go." You're scrambling for your clothes again.
"Hey." He's out of bed, standing in front of you completely naked and completely unselfconscious about it. About the scratches down his chest, the bite mark on his shoulder, the fact that he's still obviously hard. Before you can move, before you can think, his hand catches your wrist. "Look at me."
You do, even though you know you shouldn't. Even though looking at him makes everything more complicated. He's gorgeous, his hair is sticking up where you pulled it. There's a hickey on his collarbone that you definitely put there. And he's looking at you like you're the entire world. And for just a second—one brief, stupid second—you let yourself think that maybe this means something.
Then his expression shifts. "You're spiraling," he says, and the warmth from moments ago is gone.
"I'm not."
"You are." His hand tightens on your wrist. Not painful, but firm enough that you can't pull away even if you wanted to. "You're doing that thing where you overthink until you talk yourself out of what you actually want.
"You don't know what I want."
"Don't I?" He's smiling now, and it's not nice. "You want me to tell you this means something. You want me to make this easy for you so you don't have to feel guilty about fucking your boss." He leans closer, still holding your wrist. "But I'm not going to do that."
Your stomach drops. "Then what are we doing?"
"Having fun," he says easily, like it's obvious. Like you're stupid for asking. "Isn't that enough?" It should be. You should say yes, should take what he's offering and not ask for more. But something twists in your chest, sharp and ugly.
"Let go of me."
"No." His thumb finds your pulse point, presses in. "Not until you stop lying to yourself."
"I'm not."
"You are. You're already thinking about how this was a mistake, how you need to put distance between us, how you're going to be professional again starting now." His eyes are too knowing, too green, too blue. "But you won't. Because you're going to show up at my room tonight anyway."
"You're being an asshole, Norris."
"Yeah," he agrees, finally releasing your wrist. "But you knew that already." He steps back, runs a hand through his hair, and for a split second something flickers across his face, something that looks almost uncertain. But it's gone before you can identify it, replaced by that insufferable smirk.
"Go do your job," he says, already turning away. "I'll see you at eleven."
You're in the lobby at 10:58, tablet in hand, going over the Singapore schedule one more time even though you've already memorized it. The SUV is idling outside, a black Mercedes, luggage already loaded. Driver awaiting the cataclysmic clusterfuck he doesn't even know he's going to be a part of.
At 11:00 exactly, the elevator doors open and Lando steps out, sunglasses on even though it's overcast outside. There's headphones around his neck and when he sees you, he doesn't break stride, just continues to walk past you toward the exit.
"Morning," you say, falling into step beside him. "Car's out front. I confirmed with the airport that—"
"Yep."
That's it. Just "yep." He doesn't look at you. Doesn't slow down. His jaw is set in that particular way that means he's decided something, and you know from experience that whatever he's decided, it won't be good for you.
Outside, the humid Tokyo air hits you both. The driver opens the door and Lando slides into the back seat without a word, without a glance, and you stand there for half a second too long.
The driver looks at you expectantly and you get in the other side. The door closes. The driver pulls away from the hotel, and Tokyo streams past the windows—grey sky, crowded streets, people living their lives. Normal lives. Lives where their boss doesn't fuck them and then ice them out twelve hours later.
You open your tablet, the screen glowing blue in the dim interior of the car. "So, Singapore. You've got the sponsor appearance Thursday night, and I wanted to confirm timing because—"
"I read the email."
His voice is flat. Bored, almost. Like you're a telemarketer who's caught him at a bad time.
"Right," you say carefully, "but I wanted to go over the specifics in person because the venue changed last minute."
"It's fine." He's scrolling through his phone now. Instagram, from the looks of it. Double-tapping photos. Liking photos of women in bikinis almost to anger you more.
The silence in the car is deafening, with both of you just breathing wordlessly. The air between you doesn't simmer, it's gone cold, crystallized into something sharp.
"Lando," you try one more time.
"What." Still not looking up.
It's unfair that it always has to be you that reaches out first, but this isn't your first fight with him, and it surely won't be your last. You're stubborn, but he's worse than you are. He'll let it fester, let you both suffer, until you break and try to fix it. Always you, never him.
Which is why, after two years, you're still at a stalemate about Barcelona. About the first time he'd looked at you like you were something other than staff. It's the one argument you've never conceded on, and you never will. Remembering that day does something to your chest that you were desperately trying to avoid, but that's an issue for another time.
It's the reason he pestered you about how long you wanted to kiss him. It's the reason you refused to give him the proper answer.
"Can you at least look at me while I'm talking to you?" You ask, and you hate how small your voice sounds.
He does look at you then. Finally. Turns his head, lowers his sunglasses just enough that you can see his eyes over the rim.
They're empty.
"I'm looking," he says. "What do you need?"
What do you need. Like you're a stranger asking for directions.
"I need to go over your schedule," you manage.
"So go over it."
"The Thursday appearance, do you want to do the full hour or should I tell them forty-five minutes?"
"Whatever you think is best." He pushes his sunglasses back up. Returns to his phone. "That's literally your job, isn't it? Deciding things for me."
The words land like a slap and you close your tablet. Turn to look out the window instead. Watch Tokyo blur into highway, highway blur into airport approach, and try very hard not to think about how his hands felt on you last night, how he'd looked at you this morning like you were the only person in the world.
That was twelve hours ago, this is now. Lando puts his headphones on and the rest of the ride is silent.
At the airport, he's out of the car before it fully stops. Long legs carrying him toward the private terminal like he's got somewhere important to be, someone important to see.
Not you, clearly.
You handle check-in with the McLaren rep, confirm the luggage, go through the motions of your job. By the time you make it through security, Lando's already in the lounge. He's in the far corner with his laptop open. Oscar's there too, and they're talking about something that doesn't involve you. Lando's gesturing with his hands the way he does when he's explaining a corner, and Oscar's nodding, engaged.
You approach slowly and when Oscar sees you first, he brightens. "Hey! Ready for Singapore?"
Lando doesn't look up from his screen.
"Lando," Oscar says, glancing between you both with growing confusion, "she's here."
"I can see that," Lando replies, still typing.
The air shifts. Oscar's smile falters, and he suddenly looks very interested in his phone. You stand there for a beat. Two. Waiting for, what? Acknowledgment? An apology? Some sign that the man who had you pinned against his bed yesterday still exists somewhere under this cold, indifferent exterior?
"Can you grab me a coffee?" Lando asks his laptop screen. "Black with two sugars."
The request hits you wrong. He's never asked you to get him coffee. Not once in all of the years you worked for him. He always gets his own, or he offers to get you one, or you go together while discussing the schedule.
Oscar's looking at you now with something that might be pity, and that somehow makes it worse.
"Sure," you say.
You walk to the coffee station on legs that feel disconnected from your body. Make his coffee exactly how he actually likes it, two sugars, oat milk, not black like he just said because he's testing whether you'll follow orders or whether you still think you know him.
You bring it back. Set it on the table beside his laptop, careful not to let your hand shake.
He glances at it. Then at you. Then back to it. "I said black."
"You always take oat milk," you reply quietly.
"Not today." He pushes the cup away, just slightly. Just enough to infuriate you. "But thanks anyway."
Oscar has fully retreated into his phone now, shoulders hunched like he wishes he could disappear. You stand there for one more second. Feeling battered and overwhelmed. You feel your throat close, and you swallow the ache away. Your eyes blur momentarily, and it feels unacceptable.
So you pick up the coffee. Walk back to the station. Pour it out, watching the pale liquid swirl down the drain. Make a new one. Black. Two sugars like he said, like he's never drunk it in his life.
When you bring it back, Lando takes it without looking at you.
"Thanks," he says to his screen.
You walk away. Find a seat on the other side of the lounge, as far from him as the space allows. Pull out your tablet and stare at the Singapore schedule until the words stop meaning anything at all.
You're in Singapore at 9 PM, sitting alone at a hawker center that's too loud and too bright and exactly what you need right now. It's the kind of place Lando would never come to. There's no reservations, no private rooms, just plastic stools and flickering fluorescent lights and the smell of chili crab and char kway teow thick in the humid air. You're surrounded by families and tourists and locals who don't know who Lando Norris is and wouldn't care if they did.
It's perfect. You order satay from a stall run by an elderly woman who doesn't speak English, pointing at the menu until she nods and shuffles away. Your phone sits face-down on the table.
It's perfect.
You order satay from a stall run by an elderly woman who doesn't speak English, pointing at the menu until she nods and shuffles away. Your phone sits face-down on the table. You've turned off notifications. For the next hour, Lando Norris can handle his own life.
The satay arrives, chicken and beef skewers with peanut sauce and cucumber. You eat slowly, deliberately, tasting things for the first time in what feels like days. The sauce is sweet and spicy. The meat is charred just right. It's good. Simple and good. You can't remember the last time you ate something without checking your phone, without one eye on the schedule, without being ready to jump up if Lando needed something.
A family sits down at the table next to you, parents, two kids, a grandmother. They're arguing about something in Mandarin, laughing, the kind of easiness that comes from people who know each other completely. The father reaches over and steals food from his wife's plate. She swats his hand and their kids giggle.
You look away and your phone starts ringing. The sound cuts through the noise of the hawker center, his ringtone, the one you set specifically for him so you'd always know when it was him calling. Some obnoxious song he'd picked out himself, thought it was hilarious.
You let it ring. Watch the screen light up with his name, his contact photo, him on the podium in Austria last year, champagne bottle raised, that stupid beautiful grin on his face. Figure it out yourself, asshole.
It rings out. Goes to voicemail. Ten seconds later, it starts again.
You decline the call. Take another bite of satay, even though you can't taste it anymore. Immediately, it starts ringing again.
Fourth call. You decline it. Fifth call. Sixth. Seventh, until the tenth call. Your jaw is clenched so tight it hurts. Your hand is wrapped around your beer glass hard enough that your knuckles are white. He's not going to stop.
You know him well enough to know that. Lando Norris doesn't take no for an answer, doesn't accept being ignored. He'll call a hundred times if he has to. He'll call until your phone dies or you answer, whichever comes first.
You snatch the phone off the table and answer it.
"What." Your voice comes out sharp, venomous.
"Oh, so you are alive," Lando says, and he sounds almost cheerful. "Been trying to reach you."
"I know. I can see my phone."
"Then why didn't you answer?"
You close your eyes. Take a breath that does nothing to calm you down. "What do you need, Lando."
"Where are you?"
"Out."
"Yeah, I got that part. Out where?"
"Why does it matter?"
"It doesn't," he says easily, and you can hear him moving around, the sound of a hotel room, a door closing. "Just curious. You're usually answering by now."
"Maybe I'm busy."
"Doing what?"
Your grip tightens on the phone. "Is there a reason you called me ten times?"
"Ten? Was it ten?" He sounds amused. Like this is funny. Like your phone vibrating itself off a table in the middle of a restaurant is entertainment. "Didn't count."
"Lando."
"I was just thinking," he interrupts, and his voice shifts into something casual, conversational, like you're just some friends catching up. "You know that thing tomorrow morning? What time was that again?"
Your whole body goes rigid. "Are you serious right now."
"What? I'm asking about my schedule."
"The sponsor breakfast that's been on your calendar for two weeks?" Your voice is rising. The family next to you has stopped eating. "That thing?"
"See, you do know what I'm talking about." You can hear the smile in his voice. "So what's the problem?"
"The problem is you're calling me ten times to ask me something you already know."
"I wanted to hear you say it." He says it so casually, so matter-of-fact. "Wanted to see if you'd answer."
"And what was the name of that guy again? The one from Tag Heuer?"
"Lando."
"Starts with an M, right? Michael? Martin?"
"It's Marcus and you know it's Marcus."
"Right, Marcus. See? This is helpful. You're so good at this." His voice drops lower, intimate. "Always know exactly what I need."
"Stop."
"What's he there to talk about again? Contract renewal?"
"Read. The. Fucking. Briefing." You're gripping the phone so hard your hand is shaking.
"But you're already on the phone," he says reasonably, like he's being perfectly logical. "Might as well just tell me. That's what you do, right? Tell me things. Keep me organized. Make sure I don't fuck up."
"I'm hanging up now."
"No, you're not." And he sounds so certain, so fucking sure of himself. "You're going to tell me about Marcus and the breakfast and whatever else I need to know, because that's your job. Because that's what you do. Because—"
"Because what?" You cut him off, your voice shaking now with rage. "Because you fucked me? Because you think that means you own me?"
Silence.
Then, "I never said that."
"You didn't have to." Your voice cracks. "You ignored me all day. All fucking day, Lando. Didn't speak to me in the car, didn't look at me at the airport, made me get you coffee like I'm—like I'm nothing."
"You're not nothing." His voice has changed now, gone sharp and defensive. "Don't put words in my mouth."
"And now you're calling me ten times because what? You want to make sure I'm still here? Make sure I still answer when you call?"
"I called because you weren't answering," he says, and there's an edge to it now. "Because you always answer. Because that's what we, because that's how this works."
"How what works? Me being available 24/7? Me dropping everything when you need something?"
"That's literally your job."
"Fuck my job! And fuck you for calling me ten times to ask me shit you already know just to prove that you still can!"
"Are you done?" he asks finally, and his voice is cold now.
"Is there anything else you actually need?" You ask. "Anything work-related?"
"No."
"Then yes. I'm done."
"Good. I'll see you tomorrow at seven-thirty."
He hangs up first and you resist the urge to light your phone on fire.
You wake up at 5:47 AM to your alarm, which means you got maybe four hours of sleep, maybe less if you count the hour you spent staring at the ceiling thinking about how Lando hung up on you, or wait—you hung up on him, didn't you? You did. You definitely did (you didn't). And then you ordered another beer and sat there until the hawker center started closing down around you, and the grandmother from the table next to you had given you this look that said oh, honey in a language you don't speak but somehow understood perfectly.
You shower. The water pressure in Singapore hotels is always too strong or too weak, never just right, and this one is too strong, pelting against your skin. You stand there longer than you should, letting it run cold, because you read somewhere once that cold showers are good for anxiety or depression or something, though you can't remember which and you're not sure it matters because you're pretty sure you have both at this point.
Your suitcase is still mostly packed because you've been doing this for years and you've gotten very efficient at living out of luggage. Black pants—the ones that don't wrinkle, because you learned that lesson the hard way in Bahrain when you showed up to a meeting looking like you'd slept in your clothes, which you had. White blouse—the silk one, not the cotton one, because the sponsors notice these things even if Lando doesn't. Blazer. The McLaren team jacket is folded on the chair, and you stare at it for a long moment before deciding you don't want to wear it today, don't want the papaya orange plastered across your back like a brand.
You're his assistant, not his property.
Except you let him fuck you in a hotel room in Japan, so maybe the line there is blurrier than you'd like to admit, but that's an issue for another time. For a time when you haven't slept and your hands aren't shaking while you try to apply mascara in a bathroom mirror that's slightly too high for you to see properly without standing on your toes.
It's 6:58 AM when you leave your room.
The elevator ride down feels longer than it should, and you're alone in it, watching the numbers descend—12, 11, 10—and thinking about how you used to feel nervous before seeing Lando but in a good way, in an excited way, like maybe today would be the day he'd look at you like you were something other than his assistant. And then he did look at you like that, in a conference room with glass walls where anyone could see, and then in a hotel room in Japan, and now you're back to being nervous but in a bad way, in a what the fuck happens now way.
Your car is already outside. Different driver than yesterday, thankfully, because you're not sure you could handle the same driver who witnessed yesterday's silent treatment. This one is older, and he smiles at you when you get in and asks if you'd like the air conditioning higher or lower, and you say lower even though you're not actually sure what temperature you want, you just know you need to say something.
You check your phone. 7:11 AM. Lando is meeting you at 7:30, which means you're going to be early, which means you're going to be sitting in the restaurant waiting for him like some kind of desperate whore.
Your phone buzzes with three texts from Lando, telling you he's running a bit late. Lando Norris is never on time to anything that isn't racing, and you're the one who's always early, always prepared, always waiting.
The restaurant is in a hotel different from yours, the Fullerton, which is the kind of place that has doormen in white gloves and floors that echo when you walk across them. The breakfast is in a private room on the second floor, and you're the first one there, which you knew you would be, standing in a room that's set for twenty people with tables arranged in a U-shape and place cards that you helped coordinate two weeks ago.
Your card is at the corner. Lando's is at the head of the table, obviously, because he's Lando Norris and he's always at the head of the table.
You sit down. Pull out your tablet. The briefing document is already open, you've read it four times but you read it again anyway because you need something to do with your hands, something to look at that isn't the door, that isn't waiting for him to walk through it.
7:38 AM. The sponsors start arriving. Marcus from Tag Heuer, who you've met three times before and who always shakes your hand too firmly like he's trying to prove something. Two executives from Singapore Airlines whose names you know but always mix up, one is David and one is Daniel, and you make a mental note for the fourteenth time to come up with a mnemonic device for them. A woman from DBS Bank who you've never met but who looks exactly like every other corporate executive you've ever met, black suit, pearl earrings, the kind of smile that doesn't reach her eyes.
They're all making small talk, getting coffee from the station at the back, and you're nodding and smiling and saying yes, Lando will be here shortly, yes, very excited for the weekend, yes, the car is looking strong this year.
Fifteen minutes later, Lando walks in, and the first thing you notice is that he looks tired. Not tired in the way that normal people look tired, Lando Norris doesn't get dark circles under his eyes or pillow creases on his face. But there's something in the set of his shoulders, the way he's moving just slightly slower than usual, that tells you he didn't sleep well either.
Good. You hope he didn't sleep at all.
He's wearing the papaya team polo, the one that makes his eyes look impossibly green, and his hair is styled in that way that's supposed to look effortless but you know takes him at least fifteen minutes. He sees you immediately and for a fraction of a second, something crosses his face.
Then it's gone, and he's smiling, and he's Lando Norris again, and he's shaking hands with Marcus and making some joke that you can't hear from where you're sitting but that makes everyone laugh.
The breakfast starts, and you're taking notes on your tablet even though you don't really need to, even though you've done this exact breakfast seventeen times in different cities with different sponsors who all ask the same questions. How's the car feeling? What are your goals for the season? Can you tell us about your preparation routine?
You write down notes that you'll never read again.
Lando is in the middle of a story about Oscar, something about a prank involving someone's helmet, and everyone is laughing, and you can see the exact moment when his eyes start to drift toward you and then catch himself and look away.
It happens three more times during breakfast. Him starting to look at you, stopping himself, redirecting his attention to whoever's speaking or to his plate or to literally anywhere else.
The breakfast ends at 9:15 AM. People start standing, exchanging business cards, making promises to follow up. Lando is still shaking hands, still smiling, and you start gathering your things because that's what you do, you gather your things and you follow him to the next thing and the next thing and the next thing after that.
You're almost to the door when you hear him say your name. You turn and he's standing by his chair, hands in his pockets, and everyone else has filtered out into the hallway. It's just the two of you in this room with its white tablecloths and half-eaten fruit plates and the ghost of conversations that don't matter.
"Can we talk?" he asks.
And you have a choice. You could say yes. You could stay. You could let him explain or apologize or do whatever it is he's planning to do. Or, you could simply leave.
"I have to coordinate your transport to the track," you say. "You have media at eleven."
"I know what I have." His voice is quiet. "I'm asking if we can talk."
"About what?"
"About—" He stops. Runs a hand through his hair, messing up the styling he definitely spent fifteen minutes on. "About last night. About everything. I don't know, fuck—just talk."
This is the part where you're supposed to be the bigger person, supposed to hear him out, supposed to help him process his feelings or whatever it is that assistants-turned-something-else are supposed to do. But, you're tired, and quite frankly, irrigated with his phone call from last night, the past week.
And the only thing running through your head is that Lando Norris can go fuck himself.
"You've got thirty minutes before our car leaves," you say. "Don't be late."
You walk out before he can respond. In the hallway, your hands are shaking because no one tells Lando Norris no.
But you just did and somehow you make it to the elevator, make it down to the lobby, make it into the car that's waiting to take you both to the track—except Lando takes a different car, which the logistics coordinator apologizes for, says there was a mix-up with timing, and you know there wasn't a mix-up at all.
Lando Norris doesn't want to be in a car with you. Fine, so fucking be it.
The thing about working with Lando after Singapore is that it's exactly what you said you wanted. It's professional. There are boundaries now that are so clearly defined you could draw them on a map and submit them to the fucking FIA for track limits.
He starts to shows up on time, early, even, which is so unlike him that the first time it happens in Azerbaijan you actually check your watch twice to make sure you haven't gotten the schedule wrong. He reads every briefing you send him, responds to emails within ten minutes with perfect punctuation and "Thanks, appreciate it" sign-offs that make you want to throw your phone into the Caspian Sea. He says please and thank you to your face, confirms schedules without complaint, attends every meeting and every appearance and every obligation without a single emergency phone call at 3 AM or text thread about how he's lost his passport again.
It's perfect and it's absolutely killing you.
Because Lando Norris being professional and competent and respectful is somehow infinitely worse than Lando Norris being a disaster. At least when he was a disaster, he needed you. At least when he called you from the wrong country, when he missed flights, when he showed up to sponsor meetings with his shirt on backwards and that stupid grin that said I know I fucked up and you'll fix it anyway—at least then you mattered to him.
At least then you were something other than the person who books his hotels and coordinates his calendar and exists nowhere in his mind.
Now you're just another one of the staff. Azerbaijan comes and goes. He qualifies P3, finishes P4, solid points for the team. Does every single media obligation without you having to remind him once. Thanks the sponsors in his post-race interview, remembers all their names, makes that self-deprecating joke about the Safety Car that has everyone laughing. The Instagram content team gets usable footage of him and Oscar doing some challenge in the garage. He's perfect. Everyone loves Lando Norris.
You stand there with your tablet and watch him be perfect and your chest feels like someone's hollowed it out with a spoon.
Austin is somehow worse. Not because anything happens, that's the problem. Nothing fucking happens. Lando qualifies P2, finishes P3 after a brilliant drive where he overtakes Russel on the outside of Turn 1 and the entire garage loses their minds. You're standing there watching the screens, watching him celebrate, watching him spray champagne on the podium with that massive grin, and Jon claps you on the shoulder and says "Great weekend, yeah?" and you say "Yeah, great" even though you feel nothing at all.
Lando does his media rounds. You coordinate them all flawlessly because that's what you do, that's what you've always done. He thanks you once, in passing, on his way out of the paddock. Says "Cheers for everything today" like you're a volunteer marshal, like you're someone he's being polite to because that's what good people do.
That night you sit in your hotel room and eat room service that tastes like shit and watch some Netflix show you've already forgotten by the time you turn it off. Your phone sits next to you on the bed, silent. The episode ends. Another one starts. Your phone stays silent, and when you close your eyes, you dream of nothing at all.
Mexico. Brazil. Monaco.
The races blur together like watercolors left out in rain. Lando is perfect at all of them. Perfect driver, perfect ambassador, perfect professional who waves at fans and signs autographs and does Instagram stories with Oscar where they're both laughing and being the perfect team. He never once acts like anything is wrong, because maybe nothing is wrong. Maybe you were just a blip, a moment of extremely poor judgment that he's moved past completely.
Maybe fucking his assistant was something he did and forgot about, the same way he tried going vegan for a week last year or got really into padel tennis for three months. Just another phase. Just another thing Lando Norris tried and decided wasn't worth continuing.
In Brazil you have to ride in the same car to the track because logistics fucked up, only one car available, driver shortage, something about the local contractor. The coordinator apologizes profusely. You say it's fine. Lando says nothing at all.
So you sit in the back seat together in silence. He's on his phone, scrolling through something with his thumb, and you're on your tablet pretending to review the media schedule. The driver tries to make conversation about the weather, about the race, about literally anything, and gives up after both of you give one-word answers that kill the attempt dead.
Lando's knee is eleven centimeters from yours. You measured with your eyes, which is insane, which means you're absolutely fucking losing your mind. You can smell his cologne—the same one as always, the one that was on your skin for three days after Tokyo, the one you can still smell sometimes when you're falling asleep even though that's impossible.
He doesn't look at you once during the entire twenty-three-minute drive. You count that too. The minutes. Because apparently you're a person who counts things now, who measures distances and time and all the space between you and Lando Norris that keeps expanding like the universe, infinite and cold and just all to fucking far away.
Las Vegas is when you realize you can't do this anymore.
Not the job—you can do the job. You've been doing the job perfectly for years, and you could probably do it for two more, or ten more, or however long it takes for Lando Norris to retire or get bored of racing or spontaneously combust from holding in whatever it is he's holding in.
But you can't do this. This thing where you exist in the same space and pretend you don't. This thing where he's polite and professional and you're polite and professional and underneath it all you're both screaming. At least you are. You're not sure about him anymore.
You're not sure he thinks about Tokyo at all. Maybe he doesn't. Maybe it really was just that easy for him to flip the switch, to go from having his hand over your mouth while he fucked you to saying "Thanks, appreciate it" in response to your calendar updates.
Maybe you're the only one who's drowning here.
The race is at night, which makes everything feel more surreal, more like you're living in some alternate dimension where Las Vegas has an actual Formula 1 circuit running through it. Lando qualifies P1, races well, finishes first after a late-race battle with Piastri that has everyone on the edge of their seats.
You watch from the garage. Feel nothing. He does his interviews, thanks the team, heads back to the motorhome to debrief. You coordinate his transport back to the hotel, confirm his Monday morning flight, send him the updated schedule for Qatar.
He responds: Got it, thanks.
That's it. Two words and a punctuation mark. You stare at the message for five full minutes, and that's when you decide, Qatar. You're going to make something happen in Qatar, because if you have to spend one more race weekend in this professional purgatory, you're going to lose your fucking mind.
It's been thirty-seven days since Singapore.
Thirty-seven days since he asked if you could talk and you walked away from him. Thirty-seven days of Lando Norris being exactly what you told him to be, professional, respectful, boundaried. Never calls after hours. Never texts about anything that isn't work. Treats you like a colleague, like staff, like someone whose opinion matters only in the context of his schedule and his obligations and nothing else.
You should be happy. You won. You set the pace, you told him no, you hung up on him, you walked out of that breakfast, and he listened. He learned. He gave you exactly what you asked for.
So why does it feel like you're suffocating?
Why do you lie awake at night in hotel rooms that all look identical and think about the way he looked at you in Tokyo? Why do you check your phone forty times a day even though you know he won't call? Why did you save that Appreciate it text like some kind of pathetic digital shrine to whatever this was?
Qatar arrives and you're done with this. Done with him, done with yourself, done with the performance you're both putting on. Done with being professional. Done with boundaries. Done with doing the right thing when the right thing feels like dying slowly.
You book your hotel room on the same floor as Lando's.
It costs an extra €900 that you pay out of pocket, which is insane because you're supposed to be saving money, supposed to be preparing for whatever comes after you finally submit that resignation letter you've rewritten forty-seven times. But you pay it anyway. Request room 4007 specifically because you know—you've always known, you coordinate his bookings—that Lando is in 4012.
Five doors down. Close enough.
The hotel bar on Thursday night is full of people from the paddock. You can spot them easily, their team polos, the branded jackets, the mechanics and engineers clustering in corners talking about setup changes and when their next vacation is. It's the kind of place Formula 1 always stays, all identical rooms and bars that serve €35 cocktails to people on expense accounts.
You order a gin and tonic you don't want and sit at the bar, scanning the room for something. A distraction. A catalyst. A way to make something happen because you can't stand another day of nothing.
That's when you see him.
He's tall with dark hair that's slightly too long. Wearing a Racing Bulls polo, so he's an engineer, probably, or data analyst, someone who works in the circus but isn't the show. Late twenties. Attractive in a conventional way that Lando isn't, none of the madness, none of the sharp edges, none of that gravitational pull that makes Lando the center of every room.
He's perfect, and he catches you looking. Smiles and you smile back. His name is James. Works in aerodynamics for Racing Bulls. British but lives in Milan now. In Qatar for the weekend. Thinks this bar is overpriced but at least the drinks are strong.
You laugh at his jokes even when they're not funny. Let him buy you a second drink. A third. Touch his arm when he makes some comment about your hair. You're performing—you know you're performing. The years with Lando Norris have made you exceptional at performing, at being charming, at making people feel like they matter.
"Want to get out of here?" James asks around 11 PM, hand on your lower back.
"Yeah," you say. "Let's go."
James walks you to the elevator. You press 4. His hand stays on your lower back, warm through your shirt, and it should feel good but it just feels wrong, like a placeholder for someone else's touch.
The elevator rises. 1, 2, 3, 4.
The doors open and there's Lando fucking Norris standing right in the hallway.
Grey joggers. Black t-shirt. Hair a mess like he's been pulling at it. He has a phone in one hand. He looks up when the doors open.
Sees you. Then sees James. Sees James's hand on your back.
His face does something complicated and then something much darker. His jaw clenches. His eyes, which haven't really looked at you in thirty-seven days, are suddenly locked on yours with an intensity that makes your breath catch.
"Oh," you say, voice deliberately light. "Hey, Lando."
"Hey," he says.
James on the other hand, doesn't care. "Which room?" he asks, breath warm against your ear.
"4007," you say.
Still looking at Lando. Still watching him. Watching his hands curl into fists at his sides. Watching his knuckles go white. Watching thirty-seven days of professional boundaries suddenly evaporate.
That's right, Norris. Two can play at this game.
"Have a good night," you say.
You walk past him. Feel his eyes on you like a physical weight. Feel him watching as you pull out your room key, as James says something you don't hear, as you laugh even though nothing's funny.
You open the door to 4007. James follows you inside, and the lights of Doha filter through the window, and James is already close behind you, hands finding your waist.
"Nice room," he says, which is a lie because it's aggressively mediocre, but you don't call him on it.
"Yeah," you say. He kisses you and it's fine. His mouth tastes like beer and spearmint gum, and his hands are moving up your sides, and you kiss him back because that's what you came here to do, isn't it? That's the whole point of this. You let him walk you backwards toward the bed, let him pull your shirt up slightly, let his hands find skin.
Your brain is somewhere else entirely. Counting seconds. Waiting for this to be over. You hope Lando is physically ill, you hope he's thinking about you getting fucked by another man as he's only a few doors down.
James is saying something against your neck—something about how he's wanted to talk to you all night, how he noticed you at the bar immediately—and you make a noise that sounds like agreement. His hand finds the button of your jeans.
That's when the banging starts. Not knocking.
Banging.
Fist against door, hard enough that it echoes through the room, hard enough that James jerks back and says "What the fuck?" Three hits. Four. Five. The sound is aggressive, violent almost, and your heart is suddenly racing for reasons that have nothing to do with James.
"Ignore it," James says, leaning back in, but the banging continues.
Six. Seven. Eight.
"Jesus Christ," James mutters, pulling away completely now. "Should you—"
"Yeah," you say, already moving toward the door, and your hands are shaking when you reach for the handle.
You know who it is. Of course you know who it is.
You open the door. Lando is standing there, and he looks—fuck, he looks fucking furious. His chest is heaving and his jaw is clenched so tight you can see the muscle jumping, and his eyes are wild. Darker than you've ever seen them. There's nothing professional about him right now, nothing controlled. He looks like he's about to either punch something or break something, and you're not sure which.
"Get out," he says, but he's not looking at you. He's looking past you at James, who's appeared behind you, confused and irritated.
"Excuse me?" James says.
"Get. Your shit. And get the fuck out." Lando's voice is low, dangerous, each word clipped and precise. "Now."
"Who the fuck do you think—" James starts, but Lando takes a step forward into the doorway, and there's something about the way he moves, the energy coming off him, that makes James stop talking.
"I'm not asking again," Lando says.
James looks at you, clearly expecting you to say something, to tell this psycho to leave, but you don't. You just stand there between them, heart pounding, because this is what you wanted, isn't it? This is exactly what you wanted.
"This is insane," James mutters, but he's already moving, grabbing his phone from where he set it on the desk. "Fucking McLaren people are all crazy."
He pushes past both of you into the hallway, and Lando doesn't move, doesn't step aside, makes James squeeze past him. The second James is gone, Lando steps inside your room and slams the door shut behind him.
The sound echoes. And suddenly you're both just standing there, staring at each other, and the air in the room feels electric, dangerous, like something's about to combust.
"What the fuck was that?" you say, finding your voice.
"What the fuck was that?" Lando repeats, his voice rising. "Are you serious right now? You bring some random fucking guy to your room."
"So what if I did?" You step closer to him, anger flooding through you. "What the fuck do you care? You've ignored me for over a month!"
"Because you basically told me to fuck off!" His hands are in his hair, pulling at it. "You're the one that walked away, you made it very fucking clear you wanted nothing to do with me, like you—" He stops himself, chest heaving.
"Like you didn't what?"
"Like you didn't fucking need me, okay?" The words explode out of him. "Then I have to act like I don't think about it every single day, like I don't want to," He stops again, jaw clenching. "And then I see you with him, with his hands on you."
"You don't get to be jealous," you say, but your voice is shaking now. "You don't get to ice me out for thirty-seven days and then show up here acting like—"
"Thirty-seven?" He laughs, bitter and sharp. "You've been counting?"
"Fuck you."
And in the midst of it all, you kiss him. Or he kisses you. You're not sure who moves first, but suddenly his mouth is on yours and his hands are in your hair and you're grabbing his shirt, pulling him closer, needing to feel something other than the past thirty-seven days of nothing. It's not gentle. It's desperate and angry and messy, all teeth and tongue, his hands rough as they yank at your clothes.
He walks you backwards until your legs hit the bed and you fall onto it, and he's on top of you immediately, pressing you down into the mattress with his full weight. You can feel his heart pounding against your chest, or maybe that's your heart, or maybe it's both of you about to explode from the pressure of everything you haven't said.
"Fuck," he breathes against your mouth, and his hands are shaking as they pull at your jeans. "Fuck, I've been going insane."
"Shut up," you gasp, yanking his shirt over his head, needing to touch him, needing to confirm he's real and here and not the ghost you've been living with for over a month. "Just shut the fuck up."
Your jeans are stuck on one ankle and he doesn't bother getting them all the way off, just pulls them down far enough and hooks your leg over his hip. His joggers are shoved down hastily, and then he's against you, hard and desperate, and you're so wet it's embarrassing but you don't care.
"Tell me you thought about me," he demands, one hand fisting in your hair, the other between your legs. "Tell me I wasn't the only one losing my fucking mind."
"Every day," you choke out as his fingers push inside you roughly, no patience, no buildup. "Every single day, Lando, I couldn't."
"Good." He sounds wrecked, fingers working you open, hooking into your cunt until you're squirming under him. "Good, because I haven't been able to think about anything else, haven't been able to focus, couldn't even look at you without wanting to fuck you."
His thumb finds your clit and the combination makes you gasp, hips bucking up into his hand. You're already so wet, so ready, and he knows it. Can feel it.
He lines his cock against your entrance and pushes inside you in one hard thrust that makes you both gasp. There's no finesse to it, no technique. Just need. Just two people who've been starving finally getting fed.
God, he's so fucking big. You've been thinking about his cock fucking you since Tokyo.
"Fuck," he chokes out, forehead pressed to yours, and he's not moving yet, just breathing hard, like he needs a second to process that this is real. "Fuck, you feel so good."
"Move," you demand, nails digging into his shoulders. "Lando, fucking move."
He does. Hard and fast and completely graceless, hips snapping against yours with a desperation that borders on violent. This isn't romantic. This isn't making love. This is two people destroying each other because it's the only way they know how to communicate anymore.
"I couldn't do it," he gasps against your throat, and his rhythm is erratic, uncontrolled. "Couldn't keep pretending you didn't exist, couldn't watch you with someone else, couldn't fucking breathe without you."
"I know," you sob, because you do know, you've been drowning in the same thing. "I know, I know."
His hand slides between your bodies, finding your clit with his thumb, and the combination of him inside you and his fingers on you makes your back arch off the bed. You're close already, wound too tight from thirty-seven days of nothing, and he can feel it.
"That's it," he breathes, and there's something broken in his voice. "Come on, let me feel it it baby."
"Lando—" Your voice cracks on his name.
“I fucking love you,” he hisses against the side of your throat, thrusting into you with reckless abandon.
Your heart stops.
"Don't," you gasp, but you don't know if you're telling him not to say it or not to stop saying it.
"I do." He's fucking into you harder now, faster, like he can make you believe him through sheer force. "I love you and I hate that I do, hate that you have this much power over me, I fucking hate it."
"I love you too," the words tear out of you, and you didn't mean to say them, weren't planning to, but they're true and you can't hold them back anymore. "God, Lando, I love you."
He makes a sound that's half groan, half something else, something that might be relief or might be agony. His thumb presses harder against your clit and you shatter, clenching around him as you come, gasping his name into his mouth as he kisses you through it.
"Fuck, yes," he growls against your lips. "Love feeling you come on my cock, love you, fuck."
His rhythm stutters, hips jerking erratically, and then he's coming too, spilling inside you with your name on his lips and his hand in your hair and his weight pressing you into the mattress like he's trying to merge your bodies into one.
For a few seconds, neither of you move. Just lie there tangled together, breathing hard, hearts racing against each other. His face is buried in your neck and you can feel his breath hot against your skin, can feel the flutter of his eyelashes when he blinks.
This is honest. This is the most honest either of you has been in thirty-seven days, maybe longer. No performance, no professionalism, just truth wrapped in sweat and desperation and words you can't take back.
He lifts his head slowly, and when he looks at you his eyes are soft, vulnerable, like he's just handed you something fragile and he's waiting to see if you'll crush it.
Your chest aches. Your whole body aches. You reach up and touch his face, and he leans into it, and for one perfect moment you think maybe this is it, maybe this is where everything gets fixed.
Then his expression changes and the moment shutters closed like a door slamming, and he's pulling away before you can stop him. He gets up from the bed, shoving his clothes on with jerky, agitated movements.
He takes another look at you—really looks at you this time—like he's reasserting to himself that you're fine. That you're alive, that you're breathing, that you're real. Then he shoves his hands in his pockets and takes a step forward.
