adi @kaiiyoomi - Tumblr Blog

Jun 1

Off the Record | Oneshot

Pairing: Lando Norris × Journalist!Reader

Genre: enemies to lovers, rivals to lovers, slow burn, mutual pining, workplace romance (sort of), banter-heavy, he falls first, horny as usual, he falls first and harder, angst w happy ending, communication issues

Description: Lando Norris is the cocky McLaren driver who seems to take personal offense to every single question you send his way.

What starts as professional animosity and press conference sparring matches turns into something neither of you expected and the uncomfortable realization that the person who annoys you most is also the one you can't stop thinking about. Between pointed questions, cheeky non-answers, and the entire paddock watching you flirt openly, you and Lando have to figure out if there's a difference between hating someone and being desperately, maddeningly attracted to them.

Notes: press conference flirting that makes literally everyone else fucking uncomfortable, mclarens pr team is stressed, he definitely reads all her articles, Lando being a cocky bastard until he's not, they are fuckin nonstop

WC: 22k

You raise your hand, and Lando's grin is immediate—sharp, knowing, and all to fucking smug.

"Oh good," he says into the microphone, leaning back in his chair with that infuriating ease. "My favorite person. Go on then, let's hear it."

"Lando," you say, keeping your voice professional even as heat creeps up your neck, damn bastard, "your long-run pace yesterday showed significant degradation after lap fifteen. Do you think McLaren's tire management issues from last season are still a concern?"

"Mmm, good question." He taps his fingers on the table, and you know—you know—he's about to be difficult. "Counter question: do you think maybe you're reading too much into one practice session? Or is being overly critical just your brand now?"

The room titters with electricity and your jaw tightens. "I'm asking about the data, Mr. Norris."

"Aaaaand I'm saying maybe you should wait for more data before writing another—what was it you called us last year?" He tilts his head, eyes bright with mischief. "'Consistently inconsistent'? Really rolls off the tongue, that."

"You went from P4 to P9 in the championship."

"And you went from sports journalism to tabloid writing, but I'm not holding it against you." His smile is absolutely wicked. "Much."

There's a beat of silence. Oscar, whose sitting next to Lando, is studying the table like it holds the secrets to winning the championship. Charles is hiding a smile behind his hand and Max looks vaguely entertained, which is more emotion than he's shown all press conference.

You smile back, all teeth. "So, I'll have to assume that's a no comment on the tire degradation, then?"

"That's a 'come back to me after quali and we'll see who's degrading,'" Lando says, and there's absolutely a double meaning there that makes heat flash across your skin.

The moderator clears his throat. "Let's move on, shall we? Next question—"

But you're already putting your hand down, already writing in your notebook with perhaps more force than necessary, and you can feel Lando still looking at you. You don't look up. You won't give the fucker that satisfaction. Your phone buzzes in your lap. A text from your colleague James, who's sitting three seats down.

You don't dignify that with any sort of response.

The press conference continues, there's an abundance of questions about strategy, about the new regulations, about whether Red Bull's dominance is finally breakable. You don't ask another question. You just take notes, totally professional and detached, absolutely not thinking about the way Lando had said "come back to me" like it was an invitation to something other than a follow-up interview.

God, dear god, you fucking hate him.

When the moderator finally calls time, the drivers file out through the back. It's a standard procedure in which they usually hang around in the media pen for individual interviews, but the formal press conference is over. You're packing up your things when James appears at your elbow.

"You two are ridiculous," he says.

"I'm doing my job," you say coolly. "He's the one who can't answer a straightforward question without being an absolute dick about it."

"A straightforward question," James repeats. "Right. That's what that was."

"It was about tire deg—"

"It was foreplay," James interrupts. "That entire exchange was foreplay, and frankly, I'm uncomfortable that I had to witness it."

"Oh, fuck off," you mutter, but your face is hot.

"You know what the problem is?" James continues, because apparently, he's not done torturing you. "You're both as bad as each other. He winds you up, you write scathing articles, he reads them and gets more obsessed, repeat until someone snaps."

"I'm not writing scathing articles," you protest. "I'm writing accurate articles. There's a difference there, Mr. Smartass."

"Sure," James says. "Keep telling yourself that. I'm going to the media pen, you comin'?"

"In a minute," you say, because you need a moment to compose yourself, to remember that you're a professional journalist and not a character in some enemies-to-lovers romance novel.

The media center is emptying out, people heading to the paddock or the media pen or—for the smart ones—the air-conditioned sanctuary of the press room. You're about to follow when someone clears their throat behind you. You turn, and—because the universe apparently hates you—it's Lando.

He's still in his team polo, hands shoved in his pockets, and he's got that insufferable smirk on his face. "Leaving without saying goodbye? Rude."

"We're not friends," you say flatly. "I don't need to say goodbye."

"Ouch." He presses a hand to his chest in mock hurt. "And here I thought we had something special."

"We have a professional relationship," you correct. "Barely."

"Right, yeah, very professional." He steps closer, and you refuse to back up, refuse to give him the satisfaction. "That's why you asked me about tire deg in front of everyone instead of just coming to find me after."

"That's literally my job," you say. "To ask questions. In press conferences. Where questions are meant to be asked."

"You could've been nicer about it," he points out.

"I could've," you agree. "But where's the fun in that?"

His grin widens. "So you admit you're doing it for fun."

"I admit nothing." You cross your arms. "Was there something you wanted, or are you just here to be annoying?"

"Can't it be both?" He's definitely standing too close now, close enough that you can see the flecks of green in his blue eyes, close enough that you have to tilt your head back slightly to maintain eye contact. "I wanted to see if you're coming to the media pen."

"Obviously."

"Good," he says. "Because I've got some brilliant quotes prepared. Real insightful stuff, thought you might want first crack at them."

"I'll get them in the media pen," you say. "Same as everyone else."

"But you're not like everyone else," he says, and his voice has dropped lower, more serious. "Your questions are better, plus, you actually know what you're talking about."

You blink, caught off guard by the genuine compliment buried in there. "I—thank you?"

"Don't sound so surprised," he says, and the smirk is back. "I can be nice. Sometimes. When I feel like it."

"So far I haven't seen any evidence of that."

"That's because you bring out my competitive side," he says. "Can't help it. You come at me with these tough questions and I just—I have to come back at you, you know?"

"That sounds like a you problem, buddy," you inform him.

"Yeah," he agrees, still smiling. "It really is." He rocks back on his heels. "So. Media pen. I'll see you there?"

"Unless you plan on hiding from all the journalists."

"Just the boring ones," he says. "You though, you I'll make time for."

Before you can formulate a response to that—before you can figure out if he's flirting or just being his usual insufferable self—he's walking away, throwing a casual wave over his shoulder.

"See ya, looking forward to your article!" he calls back. "Try not to be too mean!"

You stand there for a moment, slightly dazed, definitely confused, and absolutely not thinking about the way he'd said you I'll make time for like it meant something.

Fuck. Fuck, and fuck.

The media pen is, as always, absolute chaos.

You've been doing this job for three years now, and you still haven't gotten used to the crush of journalists all vying for a few minutes of driver attention. There's an art to it is knowing when to push forward, when to hang back, when to shout your question over everyone else's.

You're good at it, you have absolutely no other choice but to be good at it.

You spot Lando at the McLaren backdrop, currently talking to Sky Sports. He's extremely animated, gesturing with his hands, and even from here you can tell he's giving them the full charm offensive. When the interview ends, there's a brief scrum as everyone tries to get to him at once.

You hang back. Let the others go first. You've learned that sometimes patience gets you better answers than full on aggression. Besides, you're still running the press conference through your head, still trying to figure out what the fuck just happened back there in the media center. Lando Norris doesn't seek you out. He doesn't compliment your questions. He definitely doesn't look at you like—

"You waiting for someone?"

You startle, and when you turn, it's Oscar, looking considerably more relaxed now that he's escaped the press conference.

"Just waiting for the crowd to thin out," you say. "How're you feeling about the car?"

Oscar's face does something complicated. "It's—yeah, it's good. Better than last year. Still some work to do on race pace but—" He pauses, then grins. "You're recording this, right? Should I be more media-trained?"

Despite yourself, you laugh. "I'm not recording. Just asking."

"Oh." He looks almost disappointed. "In that case, the car's fucking brilliant and if Lando doesn't shut up about tire deg I'm going to lose it."

"Noted," you say, grinning. "Off the record."

"Cheers." He glances over at where Lando's now talking to another journalist. "He's been weird all day, by the way."

"Weird how?"

"Dunno." Oscar shrugs. "Keeps checking his phone. Keeps asking what time the press conference is. Normally he tries to skip them."

"Maybe he's just keen to get the weekend started," you suggest, even as something uncomfortable twists in your stomach.

"Maybe." Oscar doesn't sound convinced. "Or maybe he wanted to see someone specific." He gives you a meaningful look.

"I don't know what you're implying," you say coolly.

"Suuuure, you don't." Oscar's grin is downright evil. "Good luck with your interview. Try not to kill each other, please."

He wanders off before you can respond, leaving you standing there wondering what the fuck that was about.

The crowd around Lando has finally thinned. It's now or never.

You approach, notebook in hand, phone ready to record. Professional. You're a professional lady.

Lando sees you coming and—

His whole face transforms. That's the only word for it. The polite, media-trained smile he'd been giving everyone else melts into something genuine, something bright and delighted, and it does absolutely nothing to your heart rate, shut up.

"There she is," he says, and he sounds genuinely pleased, like he's been waiting. "Thought you'd chickened out."

"I don't chicken out," you say. "I was waiting for you to finish charming everyone else first."

"Mhm," he says, and his eyes do a quick sweep over you, assessing, appreciative. "I like that about you. Very..." He gestures vaguely. "Strategic."

"It's called being good at my job."

"That too." He's still looking at you with that same intense focus from earlier, like you're the only person in the entire paddock. Then he leans against the McLaren backdrop, all casual confidence, and tilts his head. "So. What do you want to know? And before you ask—yes, I'll actually answer this time. Scout's honor."

He holds up three fingers in what is definitely not the scout salute.

"Were you ever a scout?"

"Absolutely not," he says cheerfully. "I was a nightmare child. Got kicked out of everything."

Despite yourself, you smile. "I believe that."

"See? We're bonding already." His grin is wicked. "This is nice. We should do this more often."

"Answer questions honestly in press conferences?"

"No, this." He waves between the two of you. "Just us. No cameras—well, except yours, but that's different."

"How is it different?"

"Because I trust you," he says, and just like that, the playfulness drops away, replaced by something sincere. "You'll write what I actually say. Not twist it, you won't take it out of context, even when you're being critical, you're still fair."

You're not prepared for the sincerity and it absolutely catches you completely off guard.

"Oh," you manage. "Well, thank you."

"You're welcome." His smile is softer now, less sharp. "So. Interview me properly. I promise I'll behave."

He definitely does not behave.

What he does is answer your questions thoughtfully and thoroughly—giving you actual insight into McLaren's testing program, their tire strategy, the improvements they've made. It's good stuff, the kind of quotes that will make for a strong article.

But he also keeps, it's not quite flirting. It's more like he keeps finding ways to make everything slightly suggestive, slightly personal, all while maintaining this veneer of complete innocence.

When you ask about tire temperature management, he says, "It's all about building it up slowly, you know? Can't rush into it or you'll peak too early." His eyes never leave yours. "Gotta have patience. Let it develop naturally."

When you ask about race pace, he says, "Consistency is key. It's a marathon, not a sprint." He grins. "Got to have stamina."

And every single time, he looks at you with those beautiful eyes and that little smile that says he knows exactly what he's doing.

By the time you're twenty minutes in, you've got more than enough material for your article, but you're also flustered and warm and absolutely not thinking about stamina.

"Okay," you say, stopping the recording. "I think I've got everything I need."

"Shame," he says, and he pushes off the backdrop to step closer. "I was enjoying that."

"You were being difficult."

"Was I?" He's in your space now, not inappropriately close, but close enough that you have to tilt your head back to maintain eye contact. "I thought I was being charming."

"Debatable."

"Ouch." He presses a hand to his chest in mock hurt. "You're mean to me."

"You can handle it."

"Can I though?" He's looking at you with intensity in his expression now, something that makes your breath catch. "You keep wounding me with these harsh words. I'm fragile, ya' know."

"You're about as fragile as a brick wall."

"See? There you go again." But he's smiling, properly smiling, and it's different from the media smile. "I like it though. The honesty. Most people are too scared to be honest with me."

"I'm not most people."

"No," he says quietly. "You're really not."

The air between you shifts, goes heavy and charged. He steps closer—close enough now that you can smell his cologne and it makes your head swim slightly.

"You know what else I like?" he asks, and his voice has dropped lower, intimate.

"I'm sure you're about to tell me."

"I like," he continues, reaching up to brush his thumb along your jawline so casually it steals your breath, "that you pretend you're not affected by me." His eyes track the movement, lingering on your mouth. "But you are. Aren't you, little dove?"

Your pulse is hammering. "You're very sure of yourself."

"I am," he agrees, shameless. "Because your cheeks are pink and you haven't stepped back. And—" his smile turns absolutely wicked, "—you keep looking at my mouth."

"I'm not—"

"You are," he says, and he leans in closer, his breath warm against your ear. "It's okay. I've been staring at yours for the past twenty minutes. Fair's fair."

Your brain short-circuits. "Lando—"

"Tell me something," he murmurs, still too close, still making it impossible to think. "Are you going to give me your number or what?"

"I don't—"

"Because I really, really want it." His hand is still on your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek in a way that's completely deliberate. "I want to text you. Call you. I want—" He pauses, and when he speaks again his voice is rough. "I want a lot of things, actually. But let's start with your number."

You should say no. You should maintain professional boundaries. You should—

"Earn it," you manage, and your voice comes out breathier than intended.

His eyes light up with pure delight. "Earn it? How?"

"Qualify top five tomorrow."

"Top five?" He pulls back just enough to look at you properly, and his grin is absolutely sinful. "Baby, I'll get pole position just to show off for you."

The casual endearment makes heat flash through you. "That's, you can't just—"

"I can," he says, completely confident. "And I will, and then tomorrow night, after I've proved myself—" His thumb traces your bottom lip, feather-light. "—you're going to give me your number. And then I'm going to call you, and we're going to have a very interesting conversation about all the other things I've been thinking about."

"What things?" The question comes out before you can stop it.

His smile is devastating. "Wouldn't you like to know?" He steps back, hands in his pockets, and the sudden loss of his proximity is almost disorienting. "Guess you'll have to wait until tomorrow to find out. That's if I qualify well enough, of course."

"Lando!" Sophie shouts again, sounding furious now.

"Coming!" he calls back, but his eyes never leave yours. "Watch me tomorrow," he says. "I'm going to be brilliant. Just for you, sweetheart."

And then he's walking away, throwing one last look over his shoulder that's absolutely filthy, and you're left standing there breathless and flushed and completely undone.

Your phone buzzes. You pull it out with shaking hands and see that it's your editor.

You stare at your phone, then at the recording app that captured twenty-five minutes of the most unprofessional interview of your career. At your notes that are half-illegible because you'd been too busy trying not to combust to write properly.

What you don't say to Sarah that you've also apparently agreed to give Lando Norris your phone number if he qualifies well tomorrow. What you don't say is that he touched your face in the middle of the paddock like it was the most natural thing in the world. What you don't say is that you can still feel the ghost of his thumb on your bottom lip and you're absolutely, completely fucked, and just on the brink of horny.

You make it back to the media center somehow. You sit down at your laptop. You stare at the screen.

You can still hear his voice in your ear, I want a lot of things, actually.

Your face is burning. Your hands are shaking and tomorrow, Lando Norris is going to qualify for you.

Fuck.

You hit publish at 5:47 PM, thirteen minutes before deadline, and immediately close your laptop before you can obsess over every word choice.

The article is fine. It's good, even. Professional, balanced, insightful. Exactly what your editor wanted.

Of course, what it doesn't mention is the way Lando had looked at you when he said "we won't really know where we are until Sunday." What it doesn't mention is that his hand had been on your face less than an hour before you wrote it. What it definitely doesn't mention is that you've read the paragraph about him being "characteristically evasive" approximately seven times because you keep getting distracted by the memory of his voice saying baby, I'll get pole position just to show off for you.

Your phone buzzes and it's an unknown number, your heart immediately stops.

But when you open it, it's just a text from the FIA media center about tomorrow's schedule. Qualifying at 3 PM local time, followed by the usual media availability.

Right. Qualifying.

Where Lando Norris is apparently going to apparently "be brilliant" for you. You drop your head into your hands and try very hard not to think about the fact that you've somehow ended up in a situation where a Formula 1 driver is treating qualifying like a personal audition for your phone number.

This is professional. You're a professional. You write serious motorsport journalism for a respected publication.

You do not give your number to drivers who touch your face and call you baby and look at you like they want to—

Your phone buzzes again.

You stare at the message for a long moment.

How did you get him to actually answer questions?

By letting him flirt with you shamelessly for twenty-five minutes, apparently. By not stepping back when he got too close. By agreeing to give him your number if he qualifies well like some kind of slut. You set your phone down and stare at the ceiling of your hotel room, tomorrow is going to be an actual utter fucking disaster.

Saturday morning arrives with all the subtlety of a brick going directly through a window.

You're up at 7 AM despite getting maybe three hours of sleep, and you spend far too long staring at your suitcase trying to decide what to wear. You settle on black jeans and a white button-up, and then, at the last minute, you grab the gold necklace your nan gave you before she died. For luck, you tell yourself.

Not for him. Never for him. (Liar.)

The paddock is already buzzing when you arrive at 10 AM. FP3 doesn't start until 11:30, but the energy is different on Saturdays. Sharper, everyone's more focused. Qualifying is where the weekend really begins.

You head straight for the media center, determined to get some work done before everything kicks off. But the second you walk in, James looks up from his laptop and grins.

"Morning, sunshine," he says cheerfully. "Sleep well?"

"Fuck off."

"Ooh, touchy." He's still grinning like an absolute devil. "Wouldn't have anything to do with a certain McLaren driver, would it?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Right, right. Of course not." He turns his laptop toward you. "So you definitely didn't spend like half an hour having what can only be described as very, very, intense eye contact with Lando Norris in the media pen."

"I was conducting an interview."

"Is that what we're calling it?" James snorts. "Because from where I was standing, it looked more like—"

"James, I swear to god—"

"Alright, alright." He holds up his hands in surrender. "I'm just saying, if you're going to be professional about this, maybe don't look at him like you want to—"

"Finish that sentence and I'm pouring coffee all over your laptop."

James wisely shuts up, but his grin doesn't fade. You grab your own laptop and settle into a chair as far away from him as possible, determined to actually get some work done.

Except you can't focus.

You keep thinking about yesterday. About the way Lando had looked at you. The way he'd touched your face so casually, like he had every right to. The way he'd said I want a lot of things, actually in that voice that made your stomach flip.

Baby, I'll get pole position just to show off for you.

You close your laptop with more force than necessary.

"That bad, huh?" James calls over.

"Shut up."

FP3 starts at 11:30, and you watch from the media center, taking notes with half your attention while the other half is focused on the papaya car circling the track.

Lando goes fastest. By three-tenths. The McLaren looks planted, aggressive, alive.

"He's on one today," James mutters. "Look at that lap. Fuckin' hell."

You don't respond. You're too busy watching Lando's onboard, watching the way he attacks every corner. When the session ends, you catch a glimpse of him on the monitor as he climbs out of the car. He pulls off his helmet, hair damp with sweat, and says something to his engineer that makes them both laugh.

And then he looks up, scanning the paddock. Your heart begins to hammer in your chest.

"He's looking for you," James says, far too gleefully.

"He is not."

"He absolutely is. Oh my god, this is the best thing that's ever happened to me. I'm going to dine out on this story for years."

Qualifying starts at 3 PM.

You're in the media center, laptop open, pretending to work while actually watching the timing screens with laser focus. Around you, journalists are chattering, placing bets on who'll take pole, but you're silent.

Q1 begins. Lando goes out immediately, setting the fastest time on his first flying lap.

1:29.8.

Comfortable, like the little fucker isn't even trying yet.

"Showoff," you mutter under your breath.

James, sitting two seats down, definitely hears you and grins.

Q2 is more of the same. Lando goes fastest again, and this time the gap to P2 is almost half a second.

"Okay, that's actually impressive," someone behind you says.

You don't turn around. You're too busy watching Lando's onboard as he comes into the pits, watching the way his engineer says "Brilliant lap, Lando, P1, half a second clear" and Lando just responds with "Yeah? Let's go faster then."

Your stomach flips.

Q3. The final shootout for pole position.

The first runs are close. Verstappen goes fastest with a 1:29.3. Charles splits the Red Bulls with a 1:29.4. And then Lando crosses the fucking line.

1:29.179.

Provisional pole.

"Holy shit," James breathes.

You can't speak. Your throat has gone absolutely tight. There's still time for final runs. Verstappen goes again, improves, but only to a 1:29.2. Still slower than Lando.

And then Lando goes out for his final lap.

You watch the timing screens. Purple first sector, purple second sector, purple third sector. The media center has gone quiet. Everyone's watching as he crosses the line.

1:28.987.

Pole position. By two-tenths.

The room explodes into noise. Everyone's shouting, scrambling for laptops to write their reports, but you're frozen in your seat, staring at the screen.

Lando Norris just took pole position in Bahrain. For you.

The media center is chaos for the next hour. Everyone's writing their qualifying reports, editing on deadline, and you're trying to focus on your own piece but your hands won't stop shaking. He did it. He actually did it. Top five, you'd said. The motherfucker got pole.

From The Racing Line - "Norris Takes Pole in Bahrain Qualifying Masterclass" By [Your Name], Motorsport Correspondent Lando Norris delivered a stunning performance in Bahrain qualifying, taking pole position with a lap that was two-tenths clear of the field and showcased exactly why McLaren believe this could finally be their year. The 1:28.987 was clinical, precise, and utterly dominant—the kind of lap that leaves no room for argument. This wasn't a pole position won by margins or luck. This was a statement. [...]

You send it to your editor and close your laptop before you can overthink it.

"That was fast," James comments. "Usually you agonize over every word."

"I have somewhere to be."

"Oh?" James's grin is evil. "Somewhere papaya-colored, perhaps?"

"Fuck off, James."

You pack up your things and head toward the media pen, where drivers will be doing post-qualifying interviews. Your heart is hammering. Your palms are sweating, this is ridiculous. You're a professional journalist about to conduct a professional interview with a driver who just qualified on pole.

The fact that said driver told you he'd get pole position just to impress you is irrelevant. The fact that you promised him your number is irrelevant.

"Get it together," you mutter to yourself.

The media pen is packed. Lando's already there, at the McLaren backdrop, talking to Sky Sports. He's still in his race suit, hair messy, face flushed from the helmet. He looks really fucking good.

You hang back, waiting your turn, trying to look professional and composed. Trying not to think about the fact that in a few minutes, you're going to have to give him your phone number in front of approximately forty other journalists.

The Sky interview wraps up. A few other outlets get their questions in. And then—

"Next?" The media coordinator calls.

You step forward before you can talk yourself out of it. Lando sees you immediately, and his entire face lights up.

"Hi," he says, and there's a smile playing at his lips. "Back for more?"

"Congratulations on pole," you say, keeping your voice professional even though your heart is trying to escape your chest. "That was an impressive lap."

"Thank you," he says, and for once he sounds genuine, not deflecting. "Felt good out there today."

You pull up your recording app. "Can you talk me through it? That final lap in Q3?"

And he does. For the next ten minutes, he gives you proper answers—thoughtful, detailed insight into the car setup, the tire warm-up, the specific corners where he found time. It's good material, exactly what you need for your article.

But the whole time, there's something in his eyes. A knowing look. A promise that this isn't over.

"The car felt planted," he's saying. "Especially through turn 11. We made some changes to the rear wing that really paid off—"

He's being perfectly professional. Completely appropriate, except for the way he's looking at you.

"And what about tomorrow?" you ask. "Race pace has been a concern. Do you think you can convert this into a win?"

"I think we've got a real shot," he says. "The long runs yesterday weren't as bad as they looked. We were doing some testing. I'm confident." He pauses. "When I'm motivated, I tend to perform well."

"Motivated by what?"

"Winning," he says smoothly. "Obviously."

The interview wraps up, and you stop the recording. "Thanks for your time."

"Always a pleasure," he says, and there's a weight to those words that makes your stomach flip. "I'll see you around."

"Yeah," you manage. "See you."

You walk away before you can do something stupid, heading back toward the media center with your notes and your recording and absolutely no chill whatsoever.

You spend the next two hours working. Transcribing quotes, writing analysis, responding to your editor's follow-up questions about tomorrow's race strategy. The media center gradually empties out as people head to dinner or back to their hotels.

You're one of the last ones left, nursing a terrible coffee from the machine and staring at your laptop screen, when someone clears their throat behind you.

You turn and Lando is standing there, changed out of his race suit into black jeans and a McLaren polo. His hair is damp from a shower, and he's got his hands in his pockets, looking almost nervous?

"Hi," he says, and his grin is absolutely wicked.

Your heart stops. "Hi."

"Still working?" He pushes off the doorframe and walks toward you with. "It's eight PM on a Saturday. That's just sad."

"Some of us have deadlines."

"Mmm." He's at your table now, and he spins your laptop around to look at your screen. "Writing about me, I see."

"I'm writing about qualifying," you correct, spinning it back. "You just happen to be relevant."

"Relevant," he repeats, grinning. "I got pole position. I think I'm more than relevant."

"You want a medal?"

"No," he says, and he leans down, bracing his hands on the table on either side of your laptop, bringing his face level with yours. "I want your number. I earned it, remember?"

Your breath catches. He's too close. Way too close and he knows it.

"There are people around—"

"There's like three people in here and none of them are paying attention," he says, glancing around lazily before looking back at you. "So. Your number. Pay up."

"You're very sure of yourself."

"I just qualified on pole," he says, grin widening. "I'm allowed to be sure of myself. Now give me your number before I do something really obvious like get down on my knees and beg for it."

Your face flames. "You wouldn't."

"Wouldn't I?" He tilts his head, eyes bright with mischief. "I'm very motivated. And I've got no shame. So unless you want to cause a scene—"

"Fine," you mutter, grabbing your phone. "What's your number?"

He rattles it off immediately, like he's been waiting for this moment all day. You type it in with shaking hands and send him a text, just a simple "here."

His phone buzzes in his pocket. He pulls it out, looks at the screen, and his smile turns absolutely sinful.

"Perfect," he says. "Now come with me."

"What? Where?"

"Somewhere private." He straightens up. "So we can have that conversation I mentioned."

"Lando—"

"Unless you want to have it here?" He glances meaningfully at the few remaining journalists. "I'm fine with an audience if you are."

You snap your laptop shut and stand up. "Lead the way."

His grin is triumphant. He doesn't say anything as you follow him through the paddock, past the team motorhomes. It's quieter now, most people having left for the evening. The floodlights cast everything in harsh white light.

He leads you to the McLaren motorhome, up the stairs to the second floor, and into a small private room at the end of the hall.

"Close the door," he says, and there's nothing uncertain about it. It's a command.

You close it and the second the door clicks shut, he's on you.

Not literally—not yet—but the energy shifts. He's leaning against the table, arms crossed, looking at you with an intensity that makes your breath catch.

"So," he says. "I qualified on pole."

"I'm aware."

"Top five, you said. I got pole." His eyes are locked on yours. "Which means I massively over-delivered. That should count for something extra, don't you think?"

"That wasn't part of the deal."

"No?" He pushes off the table and walks toward you, slow and deliberate, like a predator stalking prey. "Shame. Because I was really hoping to negotiate better terms."

Your back hits the door. "What terms?"

"Well," he says, and he's right in front of you now, close enough that you can smell his cologne. "I was thinking your number was a good start. But I want more than that."

"More?"

"Mmm." His hand comes up to brace against the door beside your head. "I want to know if you watched. Every lap. Every sector. Did you?"

"I was working—"

"That's not what I asked." His voice has dropped lower, more intimate. "Did you watch me?"

"Yes," you whisper.

"Good girl." The praise makes heat flash through you, and his smile says he knows exactly what effect those two words had. "I could feel it, you know. Knowing you were watching, it made me want to show off even more than usual."

"You always show off."

"Not like that," he says. "That was special. That was for you." His fingers trace along your jawline, tilting your head up. "Do you know how hard it was to focus? Knowing I had to be perfect? Knowing you were judging every corner, every braking point?"

"I wasn't—"

"You were," he insists. "You're always judging me. Always watching with those sharp eyes, looking for mistakes. It's incredibly hot, by the way."

Your breath has gone shallow. "Lando—"

"I've been thinking about this all day," he continues, his thumb brushing across your bottom lip. "About getting you alone. About collecting what you owe me."

"I gave you my number—"

"That's not all you owe me," he says, and his smile is absolutely filthy. "Kiss me," he says simply. "I want you to kiss me."

Your heart stops. "What?"

"You heard me." His eyes are locked on yours, confident and sure. "I earned it. Top five was the deal, I got pole. So kiss me."

"That's not—that wasn't—"

"No?" He leans in closer, his lips barely an inch from yours. "Then tell me to stop. Tell me you don't want this. Tell me you didn't think about this all day too."

You can't. You can't say any of that because it would be a lie.

"That's what I thought," he murmurs, and there's satisfaction in his voice. "So kiss me. Or I'll kiss you. Your choice."

"You're very—"

"Confident?" he supplies. "Sure of myself? Yeah, I know. It's because I'm right. I can see it in your eyes, doll. You've been thinking about this just as much as I have."

"You don't know that."

"Don't I?" His hand slides into your hair. "You're blushing. Your breathing's gone fast, and you still haven't told me to stop. So either kiss me, or stop pretending you don't want to."

"Fuck you," you breathe.

"Later," he says with a grin. "First, kiss me."

So you do, you grab his face and pull him down to you, and the kiss is immediately desperate, hungry, nothing soft about it. He makes a satisfied sound against your mouth, his hand tightening in your hair, his other hand gripping your waist and pulling you flush against him.

"There we go," he mutters against your lips. "Knew you wanted this—"

You cut him off by kissing him harder, and he groans, pressing you back against the door. His tongue slides against yours and your hands find their way into his hair, tugging, and he makes this sound that goes straight through you.

"Fuck," he breathes. "Fuck, you're—you're good at this—"

"Shut up," you manage.

"Make me," he challenges, and there's that wicked grin again.

You kiss him like you're trying to shut him up permanently, and he responds with enthusiasm, his hands sliding up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your ribs. You arch into him and he groans again, breaking the kiss to move his mouth to your jaw, your neck.

"Been thinking about this," he mutters against your throat. "All fucking day. Wanted to do this in the media pen but there were too many cameras—"

His teeth graze your pulse point and you gasp, your grip tightening in his hair.

"That's it," he says, satisfaction clear in his voice. "Let me hear you—"

"Lando—"

"Love it when you say my name like that," he says, sucking a mark into your neck that you'll definitely have to cover tomorrow. "Say it again."

"We shouldn't—"

"But we are," he points out, and he pulls back just enough to look at you. His lips are swollen, his hair is a mess from your hands, and his eyes are dark with heat. "And you're not stopping me. So either tell me to stop, or—"

You pull him back down and kiss him again, and he laughs against your mouth before kissing you back just as desperately. His hands are everywhere—your waist, your hips, sliding up your back—and you're dimly aware that this is getting out of hand but you can't bring yourself to care.

He walks you backwards until your legs hit the sofa, and then he's sitting down and pulling you into his lap, and oh—this is so much worse. You can feel everything like this, and when you shift your weight his hands grip your hips, holding you still.

"Careful," he says, voice rough. "Unless you want this to go further than making out."

"Would that be so bad?"

His eyes darken. "Don't tempt me. I've got very little self-control where you're concerned."

"Could've fooled me."

"Oh, baby," he says, and that word again makes heat flash through you. "If I didn't have self-control, I'd have done this yesterday. Would've pulled you into that room in the motorhome and—" He cuts himself off. "But I'm trying to be good. Trying to take this slow."

"Doesn't feel slow."

"It's not," he admits with a grin. "But it's slower than what I want to do." His hands slide up your back under your shirt, and you shiver. "What I've been thinking about doing."

"What have you been thinking about?"

"So many things," he says. "Very detailed, very dirty things that I probably shouldn't say out loud unless you want me to completely lose it."

"Like what?"

His smile is absolutely sinful. "You really want to know?"

"Yes."

"I've been thinking," he says slowly, his hands still moving on your back, "about how you'd look in my bed. In my Monaco apartment. I've been thinking about taking my time with you. Making you say my name over and over until you forget everything you've ever written about me—"

A door slams somewhere in the motorhome, and you both freeze. Then there's voices. Voices that are definitely coming closer.

"Fuck," Lando mutters. "Shit, that's—that's probably Zak—"

You scramble off his lap, trying to fix your hair, your shirt. Lando stands up, running a hand through his hair, looking frustratingly composed except for his swollen lips.

"Back stairs," he says, pointing to a door you hadn't noticed. "Go."

"What about—"

"I'll handle it," he says. "Just go. Quick."

You head for the door, but he catches your wrist, pulling you back for one more quick, hard kiss.

"Dinner tomorrow," he says against your lips. "After the race. Say yes."

"Yes," you breathe.

"Good." He releases you with a satisfied smile. "Now go. Before I decide I don't care who finds us."

You slip through the back door and down the stairs, heart racing, lips tingling, completely wrecked. About half an hour later your phone buzzes before you even make it back to your hotel.

You're so incredibly fucked.

Race day is a blur.

You barely sleep. Every time you close your eyes, you feel Lando's hands on your waist, his mouth on your neck, the way he'd said baby like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Your phone buzzes at 6 AM.

You throw your phone across the bed, and two hours later, you find yourself back on the paddock where the energy is more than just electrifying.

You're in the media center by 10 AM, laptop open, trying to work on your pre-race analysis. But you can't focus, you keep thinking about tonight. About dinner, about what will come after dinner.

About the way Lando had looked at you yesterday and said I've been thinking about you in my lap.

"You're very distracted today," James observes from across the table.

"I'm working."

"You've been staring at the same sentence for ten minutes," he points out. "And you're blushing. Again. You're always blushing now. It's very telling."

"Fuck off, James."

"Just saying," he mutters, going back to his laptop. "You've been weird since qualifying."

You ignore him and try to focus on your work. Pre-race analysis. Driver interviews. Tire strategy predictions. Professional things that have nothing to do with the fact that Lando Norris's mouth was on your neck less than twenty-four hours ago.

The race starts at 3 PM. Lando gets a perfect start, leading into turn one. He controls the entire race—managing the tires beautifully, defending when he needs to, pulling away when he can. It's a masterclass in racecraft.

He crosses the line in P1, and the McLaren garage erupts.

You're watching from the media center, and you can't help the smile that spreads across your face. He did it. He actually did it.

Lucky bastard.

You spend two hours getting ready.

The green dress is simple, it's fitted, falling just above your knees, with a neckline that's professional but not too prudish. You pair it with heels and the gold necklace from your nan. Your hair is down, loose waves that took longer than you'd like to admit.

You look at yourself in the mirror. You look good, definitely nervous, but good.

Your phone buzzes at 7:55.

You grab your bag and head downstairs, heart hammering.

Lando is leaning against the wall near the entrance, scrolling through his phone. He's wearing black jeans and a white button-up with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, and he looks unfairly good.

He glances up as you approach, and his eyes do a slow sweep from your heels to your face. His expression shifts into something hungry.

"Fuck," he mutters, pushing off the wall. "Look at you."

"Hi," you manage.

"Hi." He closes the distance between you, and his hand immediately finds your waist, pulling you close enough that you can smell him. "You're trying to kill me, aren't you?"

"What?"

"This dress." His eyes drag over you again, slower this time, deliberate. "You look—fuck, I mean, I don't even have the words. You look incredible."

Your face heats. "Thank you."

"I mean it." His thumb strokes along your hip, and his voice drops lower. "I've been thinking about this all day. About seeing you, about getting you alone." His eyes linger on the neckline of your dress. "But I didn't expect you to look this good. You're making this very difficult for me."

"Making what difficult?"

"Behaving," he says, and his grin is absolutely wicked. "Taking you to dinner like a gentleman when all I want to do is—" He stops himself, jaw tightening. "Come on. Before I do something stupid like kiss you in your hotel lobby."

He takes your hand and leads you outside to a waiting car, it's a sleek black Mercedes with tinted windows. He opens the door for you, and you slide in, hyperaware of the way his eyes track the movement of your legs.

He gets in after you, and the second the door closes, the air shifts. It's just the two of you now, in the dim interior of the car, and he's looking at you with that same intensity from yesterday.

The restaurant is tucked away on a quiet street, the kind of place you'd never find unless you knew it was there. Inside, Lando keeps his hand on the small of your back as you're led to a private booth in the corner—secluded, half-hidden by a partition. The lighting is low, candles flickering on the table.

You slide into the booth, and Lando slides in next to you. Not across from you. Next to you, close enough that his thigh presses against yours.

"This okay?" he asks, voice low.

"It's—yes."

"Good," he says. "Because I'm not sitting across from you. Not when you're wearing that."

The waiter appears, takes drink orders, disappears. And then it's just the two of you in this little bubble of dim lighting and soft music and tension so thick you could cut it with a knife.

"So," Lando says, and his hand finds your thigh under the table immediately. "Tell me something."

"Like what?"

"Anything." His fingers trace lazy patterns on your skin. "What made you want to be a journalist?"

"You're really asking me about my career right now?"

"I'm curious," he says. "About you. About what makes you tick." His thumb strokes higher. "Humor me."

You try to focus on the question and not on his hand. "My grandad. He used to, he loved motorsport. We'd watch races together when I was little. And he'd point out all the things the commentators missed. It was brilliant."

"Was?" His voice is softer now.

"He died when I was sixteen," you say. "Cancer. But he's—he's why I do this. Why I care about getting it right, about t asking questions drivers don't get annoyed with."

His hand stills on your thigh. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay. It was a long time ago." You glance at him. "He would've liked you, I think. Would've appreciated your racing today."

"Yeah?" He looks pleased by that. "Tell me more. About the race. What did you think? And I don't want any of that polished journalist answer. I want your actual thoughts."

"You want my actual thoughts?"

"Always," he says, and there's something sincere in his expression. "I told you. Your opinion matters. So tell me."

So you do. You talk about his tire management, about the way he defended into turn one on lap thirty-seven, about the brilliant strategy call to extend his first stint. And he listens to all of it.

"See, that's what I like about you," he says after you've thoroughly analyzed his race. "You actually know what you're talking about. Most people just say 'good job' and move on."

The waiter returns with drinks. You ordered wine and Lando ordered water because he's driving. The waiter rattles off specials, takes your orders, disappears again.

And Lando's hand stays on your thigh.

"You're very distracting," you manage.

"Am I?" His fingers slide higher, just slightly. "Sorry."

"No you're not."

"No, I'm not," he agrees, grinning. "I've been good for—" he glances at his watch, "—twenty whole minutes. That's pretty impressive restraint, I'd say."

"Twenty minutes?"

"Mmm." His hand slides higher still, and your breath catches. "Do you know how hard it is to sit here and talk about tire deg when you're wearing this dress? When I've been thinking about taking it off you all day?"

"Lando—"

"Tell me to stop," he says, and his voice has dropped lower. "If you want me to stop, tell me."

You don't tell him to stop.

His smile turns wicked. "That's what I thought."

Dinner arrives. You barely taste it. You're too focused on the way Lando's fingers are drawing patterns on your inner thigh, maddeningly close to where you actually want them but never quite getting there.

"You're not eating," he observes.

"Neither are you."

"I'm distracted," he says. "Can't seem to focus on anything except how good you look right now." His hand slides higher. "And how much better you're going to look later."

"Later?"

Your face is burning. "You're terrible."

"I'm honest," he correct as his thumb brushes against the edge of your panties. "Want me to tell you what else I'm thinking about?"

You can't speak. You can barely breathe, the room is hot, the air, Lando, everything about this place is too fucking hot.

"I'm thinking," he continues, voice low and rough, "about how you'd taste. About making you come on my tongue. About the sounds you'd make when I—"

"We're in a restaurant—"

"I know," he says, and he sounds pleased with himself. "But you're not stopping me. You're sitting there, getting wetter by the second, letting me touch you where anyone could see if they looked close enough."

"Fuck—"

"You like it," he says confidently. "You like that I'm making you fall apart in public. That I'm barely even touching you and you're already—"

He presses harder, and you gasp, your hand gripping his wrist.

"That's it," he murmurs. "Hold onto me. Let me make you feel good."

"We can't—we can't do this here—"

"Can't we?" His fingers slide under the lace now, finding your cunt wet and ready, and he makes a satisfied sound. "Fuck, you're soaked. Is this all for me, baby?"

You can't answer. Can't do anything but try to keep quiet as his fingers stroke against you with devastating precision.

"Answer me," he says, and there's a command in his voice that makes you shiver. "Is this for me?"

"Yes," you breathe. "Yes, fuck—"

"Good girl," he says, and those two words combined with his fingers circling your clit make you see stars. "So good for me. Being so quiet when you want to scream."

"Lando—please—"

"Please what?" he asks, and he's grinning now, enjoying this far too much. "Please stop? Please don't make you come in this restaurant where anyone could hear?"

"Please—I need—"

"I know what you need," he says, and his fingers slide lower, teasing your entrance. "But you're not getting it here. Not yet. This is just—" He pushes one finger inside you, and you have to bite your lip to keep from moaning. "—a preview."

He fucks you with one finger, slow and deliberate, his thumb still working your clit, and you're trying so hard to keep your expression neutral, to not let anyone know what's happening under the table.

"You're doing so well," he murmurs. "Being so good for me. Taking what I give you." He adds a second finger, and your grip on his wrist tightens. "That's it. Let me feel you. Let me—fuck, you're close already, aren't you?"

"Yes—"

"Do you want to come?" he asks. "Right here? With all these people around?"

"I—I can't—"

"Yes you can," he says firmly. "You can be quiet. You can come on my fingers without making a sound. Can't you?"

His fingers curl inside you, hitting that spot that makes your vision blur, and you're so close, so desperately close—

"Lando—"

"Come for me," he says, voice low and commanding. "Now."

And you do. You come so fucking hard on his fingers, biting your lip so hard you taste blood, your hand gripping his wrist like a lifeline. He works you through it, fingers moving steadily until you're shaking, until you're pushing his hand away because it's too much.

"Good girl," he murmurs, and he brings his fingers to his mouth, sucking them clean while maintaining eye contact. "Fuck, you taste so good, baby."

You're still trying to remember how to breathe.

"We should—" You can't finish the sentence. Can't think.

"We should leave," he finishes for you. "Before I decide to fuck you right here in this booth."

He signals for the check, pays while you're still trying to compose yourself, and then he's pulling you out of the booth, his hand firm on your lower back.

The car ride back to his hotel is silent except for your racing heart and his hand on your thigh, possessive and sure.

He's staying at the hotel. Penthouse suite, of course. The elevator ride up is torture. You can see your reflection in the mirrored walls—flushed, disheveled, eyes dark. Lando stands behind you, his hand on your hip, and he's watching you in the mirror with that same hungry expression.

"You look wrecked," he says, pleased.

"It's your fault."

"I know," he says. "And I'm not even close to done with you yet."

The elevator dings and he leads you down the hall to his suite, unlocks the door, and the second you're both inside, the second the door closes behind you—

He's on you, his mouth crashes into yours, desperate and hungry, and you kiss him back just as frantically. His hands are everywhere—your waist, your hips, sliding up your back to find the zipper of your dress.

"Fuck," he mutters against your mouth. "Been wanting to do this—"

He pulls the zipper down slowly, deliberately, and the dress falls to the floor, pooling around your heels. You're left standing in just your underwear and heels, and Lando steps back to look at you.

"Christ," he breathes. "Look at you."

You reach for his shirt, fumbling with the buttons, and he helps you, shrugging it off and tossing it aside. And then his hands are on you again, pulling you close, skin against skin.

"Bed," you manage. "Lando—bed—"

"So demanding," he says, but he's already walking you backwards toward the bedroom. "I like it. Like it when you tell me what you want."

The back of your knees hit the bed, and you fall backwards, Lando following you down. His mouth finds your neck, your collarbone, your chest, kissing and biting and sucking marks into your skin.

"These need to come off," he mutters, fingers hooking into your underwear. "Now."

You lift your hips, and he pulls them down, tossing them aside. And then he's settling between your thighs, looking up at you with dark eyes and a wicked grin.

"I told you," he says, "I've been thinking about tasting you."

And then his mouth is on you, and you're gone. His tongue is devastating, completely relentless, alternating between broad strokes and focused attention on your clit. You're still sensitive from earlier, and it's almost too much, but he holds your hips down with firm hands when you try to squirm away.

"Stay still," he commands. "Let me—fuck, you taste so good—"

He eats you out like he's starving, like this is the only thing he wants to be doing, and you're already embarrassingly close again. Your hands find his hair, tugging, and he groans against you, the vibration making you gasp.

"Lando—I'm—I'm close—"

"Already?" He pulls back just enough to speak, his breath hot against your sensitive skin. "I've barely started."

"Please—"

"Since you asked so nicely," he says, and he adds two fingers alongside his tongue, curling them perfectly, and you're coming again, harder this time, his name a broken sound on your lips.

He doesn't stop. Doesn't give you time to recover. He just keeps fucking going, wringing every last bit of pleasure from you until you're shaking, until you're pulling at his hair, until you're begging him to stop, to give you a single second to recover.

"One more," he says. "Give me one more."

"I can't—"

"Yes you can," he says firmly. "You can take it. Be good for me."

And somehow, impossibly, he pulls another orgasm from you, smaller but no less intense, and you're crying now, overwhelmed and oversensitive and completely wrecked. Finally, finally, he pulls back, pressing kisses to your inner thighs, your hips, your stomach.

"You're so fucking perfect," he mutters. "So good for me. Taking everything I give you."

You can't speak. Can barely move and he kisses his way up your body until he's hovering over you, and you can taste yourself on his lips when he kisses you.

"Still with me?" he asks softly.

"Barely," you manage.

He grins. "Good. Because we're not done yet."

He kisses you again, slow and deep, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. His body presses you into the mattress, solid and warm, and you can feel exactly how affected he is by all of this.

"Lando—" you breathe against his mouth.

"Mmm?" He's trailing kisses along your jaw now, your neck, finding that spot below your ear that makes you shiver.

"You're—you're still wearing pants."

He laughs against your throat. "Am I? Hadn't noticed."

"Liar."

"Maybe," he agrees, and he bites down gently on your shoulder. "But I was busy. Had some other priorities."

"Uh-huh, like what?"

"Like making you come three times," he says, pulling back to look at you. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide. "Like hearing you say my name like that. Like—" He pauses, thumb stroking your cheek. "Like making sure you know exactly how good I can make you feel."

"I think you've made your point."

"Have I?" His grin is wicked. "Because I've got a whole list of other things I want to do to you. We're nowhere near done."

"Then maybe you should—" You reach for his belt, fingers fumbling with the buckle. "Even the playing field."

"So impatient," he teases, but he's already helping you, shoving his jeans and boxers down and kicking them off. "There. Happy now?"

You are. Very happy. Because Lando Norris is kneeling between your thighs, completely naked, looking at you like you're the only thing in the world that matters, and he's just so, fucking big.

"Stop staring," he says, but he sounds pleased.

"I'm not staring."

"You absolutely are," he says. "And I'd be offended except you're looking at me like you want to eat me alive, so I'll allow it."

"You'll allow it?"

"Mmm." He leans down, caging you in with his arms. "I'm very generous like that."

You reach up and thread your fingers through his hair, pulling him down for a kiss. It's slower this time, less frantic, but no less intense. His tongue slides against yours, and his hips roll against you, and the friction makes you both groan.

"Fuck," he mutters. "Need to—do you have—"

"Pill," you manage. "I'm on the pill."

His eyes darken impossibly further. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"And you're—you're okay with—"

"Lando," you interrupt. "Stop overthinking and fuck me already."

His grin is absolutely feral. "Yes ma'am."

He reaches between you, lining himself up, and then he's pushing in slowly, giving you time to adjust. And fuck, it feels like he's going to split you into two.

"Breathe," he says softly, and his hand finds yours, lacing your fingers together. "Breathe, baby. You're doing so good. Taking me so well."

"You're—fuck—you're big—"

"I know," he says, and there's no false modesty there, just confidence. "But you can take it. I know you can. Be good for me."

He pushes in further, and you're so full, stretched around him in a way that's almost too much but also exactly right. When he's finally seated fully inside you, he drops his forehead to yours, both of you breathing hard.

"Okay?" he asks.

"Yeah," you manage. "Move. Please move."

"Since you asked so nicely," he says, and he pulls out slowly before snapping his hips forward, making you cry out. "Fuck, you feel good. So tight. So perfect, baby."

He sets a rhythm—deep, hard thrusts that hit something inside you that makes stars explode behind your eyelids. Your nails dig into his shoulders, and he groans, the sound rough and wrecked.

"That's it," he mutters. "Mark me up. Want everyone to know—fuck—want everyone to see—"

His mouth finds your neck, sucking marks into your skin, and you're dimly aware that you'll have to cover these tomorrow, but you can't bring yourself to care. Not when he's fucking into you like this, not when his hand slides between your bodies to find your clit—

"Lando—I can't—I already came three times—"

"You can," he says firmly, fingers circling your clit with devastating precision. "You can give me one more. I want to feel you come on my cock. Want to feel you fall apart for me."

"Please—"

"Please what?" He angles his hips differently, hitting that spot inside you that makes you see white. "Please make you come? Please fuck you harder? Use your words, baby."

"Both," you gasp. "Both—fuck—Lando—"

"Good girl," he says, and he does exactly what you asked for. Fucks you harder, fingers working your clit relentlessly, and you're so close, so desperately close—

"Come for me," he commands. "Now. Let me feel it."

And you do. You come so hard your vision goes black, clenching around him, his name a scream on your lips. He fucks you through it, pace never faltering, and then his rhythm stutters.

"Where—" he gasps. "Where do you want—"

"Inside," you manage. "Want you to—please—"

"Fuck—" His hips snap forward one final time, and you feel him pulse inside you, warmth flooding you as he comes with your name on his lips.

He collapses on top of you, both of you breathing hard, sweaty and wrecked and completely satisfied. After a moment, he carefully pulls out, and you make a small sound at the loss.

"Stay there," he says, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "I'll be right back."

He disappears into the bathroom, and you hear water running. He returns with a warm cloth, and he cleans you up gently, carefully, pressing kisses to your thighs, your hips, your stomach.

"You okay?" he asks softly.

"More than okay," you manage. "That was—"

"Incredible?" he supplies with a grin. "Mind-blowing? Life-changing?"

"You're so full of yourself."

"Can you blame me?" He tosses the cloth aside and climbs back into bed, pulling you against him. "I just made you come four times. I think I've earned the right to be a little smug."

You want to argue, but you're too exhausted, too satisfied, too content in his arms. His fingers trace lazy patterns on your back, and you're just starting to drift off when he speaks again.

"Hey," he says softly.

"Mmm?"

"I meant what I said yesterday," he says. "This isn't—I'm not just fucking around. With you, I mean. This isn't just—" He pauses, like he's choosing his words carefully. "I like you. A lot. And I want, I want to see where this goes. If you do."

You pull back enough to look at him. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," he says, and there's something vulnerable in his expression. "I know it's complicated. With your job and my job and the whole—everything. But I want to try. If you want to."

"I want to," you say softly. "I want to try."

His smile is brilliant. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Good," he says, and he kisses you, slow and sweet. "Because I'm not letting you go now. You're stuck with me."

"Is that a threat?"

"It's a promise," he says. "Now go to sleep. You need rest."

"Why?" you ask, even as your eyes are already closing. "What are you planning?"

"Round two," he says cheerfully. "In about an hour. Maybe less, y'know, I've got excellent recovery time."

"You're insatiable."

"Only with you," he says, and his hand slides down to grip your ass possessively. "Only ever with you."

You fall asleep like that, wrapped in his arms, his hand on your hip, his breath warm against your hair. And when you wake up two hours later to his mouth on your neck and his hand between your thighs, you think maybe this complicated thing between you isn't so complicated after all.

Maybe it's exactly what it needs to be.

You wake up properly at 6 AM, sunlight streaming through the windows. You're sore in the best way, marks littering your neck and thighs, and Lando is wrapped around you like a koala, his face buried in your neck.

"Morning," he mumbles against your skin.

"Morning."

"Sleep well?"

"When you let me sleep, yes."

He grins against your throat. "Not my fault you're so—" He bites down gently. "—irresistible."

"We had sex four times."

"Five," he corrects. "You were half-asleep for the last one but you definitely came."

Your face burns. "Oh my god."

"What?" He props himself up on one elbow, looking down at you with that infuriating grin. "I'm just stating facts. You're very responsive when you're sleepy. It's adorable."

"I hate you."

"No you don't," he says confidently. "You like me. You said so last night. Multiple times, and very loudly, may I add."

"I'm leaving."

"No you're not," he says, and he rolls on top of you, pinning you to the mattress. "You're staying right here. With me. All day."

"I have work—"

"No you don't," he says. "It's Monday. There's no race until next weekend. You can take a day off."

"Lando—"

"Please?" He gives you those eyes, the ones that are entirely unfair. "Stay. We'll order room service. We'll watch films. We'll—" His hand slides between your thighs. "—do other things."

"You're insatiable," you say again, but you're already arching into his touch.

"With you?" he says, fingers finding you wet and ready. "Always."

You don't leave until Tuesday afternoon.

By then, you've had sex more times than you can count, ordered room service three times, and thoroughly discussed the complications of dating each other while maintaining professional boundaries.

"So we're doing this," you say, standing in his doorway fully dressed for the first time in nearly forty-eight hours.

"We're doing this," he confirms. He's wearing only joggers, hair a mess, looking far too good for someone who's barely slept. "You're my girlfriend. I'm your—what am I? Your racing driver boyfriend?"

"That sounds terrible."

"It does," he agrees. "But it's accurate. You're dating a racing driver. How does it feel?"

"Complicated," you admit.

"Yeah," he says, and he pulls you close for one more kiss. "But worth it."

"We'll see," you say, but you're smiling.

"I'll text you," he says. "All the time. You're going to get sick of me."

"I'm already sick of you."

"Liar," he says, and he kisses you again. "Go. Before I decide to keep you here for another day."

You leave before he can make good on that threat, and you're in the elevator heading down when your phone buzzes.

You're smiling like an idiot as you step out into the Bahrain heat, and you think maybe, just maybe, this might be the best thing you've ever done.

The week between Bahrain and Saudi Arabia passes in a blur of phone calls and stolen moments. Lando calls you every night.. sometimes twice.

The first call comes Monday night, after you've finally made it back to London, exhausted and sore and still feeling the ghost of his hands on your skin.

Your phone rings at 11 PM.

"Hi," he says when you answer, and you can hear the smile in his voice.

"Hi."

"What are you doing?"

"Lying in bed," you say. "Trying to recover from the weekend."

"Mmm." His voice drops lower. "Sore?"

Your face heats. "Yes."

"Good," he says, sounding entirely too pleased with himself. "That was the goal. Want me to tell you all the ways I'm going to make you sore next time?"

"Lando—"

"What? I'm just planning ahead. Being thorough." You can hear him shifting, like he's getting comfortable. "Very thorough. You wanna hear about it?"

"You're insatiable."

"You keep saying that," he says. "And you keep answering my calls. So clearly you don't mind."

He's right. You don't mind.

You talk for two hours. About everything and nothing. He tells you about his training session, about the debrief with the team, about how Oscar keeps giving him knowing looks and it's driving him mental. You tell him about your editor demanding three more articles by Friday, about James's endless teasing, about how you can't stop thinking about Bahrain.

"Yeah?" he asks, voice going soft. "What are you thinking about?"

"You know what I'm thinking about."

"Tell me anyway."

So you do. You tell him about his mouth on you, his hands, the way he'd made you come so many times you'd lost count. And he listens, his breathing getting heavier, and by the time you're done, you're both worked up and frustrated and he's groaning into the phone.

"You're killing me," he mutters. "I'm hard just listening to you talk."

"Good."

"It's not good," he says. "It's torture, and I can't do anything about it because you're in London and I'm in Monaco and, fuck, I wish you were here."

"Me too."

"Next weekend," he says. "Saudi Arabia. You're coming, right?"

"I'm covering it, yes."

"Good," he says. "Because I've been thinking about getting you in my hotel room again. About making you scream my name so loud the entire floor hears—"

"Lando—"

"What? I'm just being honest." He pauses. "Are you touching yourself?"

"What? No—"

"You should be," he says. "I am."

Your breath catches. "You're—"

"Mmm." You can hear the smile in his voice. "Been hard since you started talking. So I'm taking care of it. Thinking about you. About how good you felt around me. How wet you were. How perfect—"

"Fuck," you breathe.

"Touch yourself," he says, voice rough. "Please. I want—I want to hear you."

So you do. You slide your hand between your thighs, and you're already wet, already worked up from just his voice, and you tell him, tell him what you're doing, and he groans.

"That's it," he says. "Good girl. Just like that. Wish it was my hand. Wish I was there with you. Would make you come on my fingers. Then on my tongue. Then on my cock—"

You come with his voice in your ear, his name on your lips, and you hear him follow a moment later, breathing hard and wrecked.

"Fuck," he mutters after a long moment. "That was—"

"Yeah."

"We're doing that again," he says decisively. "Like, every night until I see you."

"Every night?"

"Every night," he confirms. "I'm greedy. Sue me."

You fall asleep with your phone still on, his voice the last thing you hear.

He calls you Tuesday at lunch.

"Hi, I'm bored," he announces. "Entertain me."

"I'm working."

"So? Take a break and talk to me."

"About what?"

"Anything." You hear shuffling, like he's settling in somewhere. "Tell me about your day. What are you writing about?"

"You, actually."

"Oh?" He sounds delighted. "Am I your favorite subject?"

"You're certainly my most demanding subject."

"I prefer 'thorough,'" he says. "Or 'attentive.' Maybe 'exceptionally talented'—"

"You're ridiculous."

"Yeah, yeah," he counters. "What are you writing? Is it nice? Are you saying good things about me?"

"I'm analyzing your race pace," you say. "Very objectively."

"Objectively," he repeats. "So you're not mentioning how incredibly handsome I looked on the podium? How the champagne really brought out my eyes?"

"That's not really relevant to motorsport analysis."

"It should be," he says. "Aesthetics matter, you know. I'm a complete package. Speed and good looks."

"You're impossible."

"And yet you're dating me," he points out. "So what does that say about you?"

"That I have terrible judgment."

He laughs, bright and genuine, and something warm unfurls in your chest. You talk for forty-five minutes. About nothing important. About everything and when you finally hang up because your editor is calling, you're smiling so hard your face hurts.

Friday afternoon, you're packing for Saudi Arabia when he calls.

"What are you bringing?" he asks immediately.

"Clothes?"

"What kind of clothes? Specifically."

"Why?"

"Because I need to mentally prepare," he says. "If you show up in something hot, I'm going to lose my mind and I have to drive on Saturday."

"I'm bringing work clothes."

"Define 'work clothes.'"

"Professional clothes," you say. "Shirts. Trousers. The usual business casual stuff."

"What about for after work?" he presses. "What are you wearing when I take you to dinner on Sunday night?"

"You're taking me to dinner Sunday?"

"Obviously," he says. "I'm taking you to dinner, then I'm taking you back to my hotel, and then I'm taking you apart. So I need to know what I'm working with here."

Your face heats. "I hate you."

"You love me," he says cheerfully. "You will, eventually. I'm growing on you."

"Like a fungus."

"Exactly like a fungus," he agrees. "A very charming, very attractive fungus who's going to make you come approximately six times on Sunday night."

"Six?"

"At least," he says. "I'm setting goals. Aiming high. Speaking of aiming high, I'm getting pole again this weekend."

"Confident."

"Motivated," he corrects. "Big difference and right now, I'm motivated because I know you'll be watching. Know you'll be there in the garage, wearing your little work clothes, looking all professional while thinking about what I'm going to do to you later—"

"Lando—"

"What? I'm just stating facts. You will be thinking about it. About me. About this." His voice drops lower. "About how I'm going to get you in my hotel room and take my time with you. Make you beg for it."

"I don't beg."

"You will," he says confidently. "You did in Bahrain. Multiple times. Very prettily, too."

"I'm hanging up now."

"No you're not," he says. "You like this too much. Like me too much. Admit it."

"I'm not admitting anything."

"Fine," he says. "But you will. Eventually. I'm very persuasive."

"You're very annoying."

"Same thing," he says. "See you tomorrow, baby. Can't wait."

He hangs up before you can respond, and you're left standing in your bedroom, smiling like an idiot at your phone. You're so fucked.

Saturday morning in Jeddah is already hot by the time you arrive at the circuit. The paddock is buzzing with energy, everyone preparing for qualifying later today. You're walking past the McLaren garage, press pass around your neck, laptop bag over your shoulder, trying to look professional and not like someone who spent half the night on the phone with their driver boyfriend.

"Oi!"

You glance over, and Lando is leaning against the garage entrance, arms crossed, grinning at you like an idiot. He's in his race suit, the top half unzipped and tied around his waist, fireproofs clinging to him in a way that should be illegal. He catches your eye and his grin widens. He waves—a stupid, goofy little wave that makes him look about twelve years old—and mouths hi.

You roll your eyes but you're smiling, giving him a small wave back.

He blows you a kiss.

"Norris!" someone shouts from inside the garage. "Stop flirting and get in here!"

He laughs, throwing you one more look—heated, promising—before disappearing back inside.

About twenty minutes later, your phone buzzes.

You save the hotel information in your phone and head to the media center, trying very hard not to think about room 2401.

Qualifying goes well. Lando puts it P3, just behind the two Ferraris. He's happy with it in the media pen, all smiles and confidence, and when you interview him, he's perfectly professional.

Except for the way his eyes linger on you just a bit too long. Except for the way he says "some people" when talking about his motivation, and you know he means you.

"Good quali," you say when you stop recording.

"Thanks," he says, grinning. "Told you I'd be brilliant."

"P3 is good, not brilliant."

"Harsh," he says, but he's still smiling. "Guess I'll have to be brilliant tomorrow then. Win the race and really impress you."

"I'm already impressed."

Something soft crosses his face. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Good," he says quietly. Then louder, because people are around, "Right, well. See you tomorrow then. For more hard-hitting journalism."

"Can't wait."

He walks away, but not before his hand brushes yours. Brief. Barely there, but, it's enough to make your heart skip.

Sunday. Race day.

You're in the media center, watching the formation lap on the monitors. Lando's in P3, sandwiched between the two Ferraris. It's going to be a fight for the podium at minimum.

Lights out and Lando gets a decent start, holds P3 through turn one. The first stint is clean, he's managing the tires well, keeping pressure on the Ferraris ahead.

Lap 18, he pits. It's slightly earlier than optimal, but strategy-wise it makes sense. They're going aggressive, trying to undercut.

He comes out in traffic.

You watch as he tries to overtake a backmarker into turn four—a fast, tricky corner with a wall on the exit. The backmarker doesn't see him. Moves over. Lando has nowhere to go.

He hits the wall. Hard. The McLaren spins, takes another hit on the opposite side, and comes to rest in the middle of the track, front wing destroyed, rear suspension clearly broken.

The red flag comes out immediately.

"Fuck," James mutters beside you. "That looked bad."

Your heart is in your throat. "Is he okay?"

"Radio says he's fine. Car's fucked though."

You watch as Lando climbs out of the car, clearly frustrated. He pulls off his helmet, runs a hand through his hair, and you can see the anger in every line of his body even from the long-distance camera shot.

"That was his fault," someone behind you says. "Too aggressive. Clearly, the backmarker was on the racing line."

"He should've backed out," another voice agrees. "Impatient move."

You pull up the replay. Watch it again and again, and fuck, fuck because they're right.

The backmarker was on the racing line. It was Lando's responsibility to pass safely. He'd gone for a gap that was always going to close. He'd been too aggressive, too impatient, and it had cost him.

It had cost McLaren and your phone is buzzing with texts from Sarah, your editor, demanding 800 words on the crash within the next thirty minutes.

You hit send at 4:47 PM and your stomach feels like lead.

You try calling Lando and it goes straight to voicemail. You try again an hour later. Voicemail. Again at 7 PM. Voicemail.

You try to text, but there's no response, and your chest feels tight. He had to have seen the article and is deliberately not responding.

"Fuck," you mutter, grabbing your bag.

James looks up. "Where are you going?"

"I have to—I need to go."

You're out the door before he can ask anything else.

The Hilton Corniche is a twenty-minute drive from the circuit. You probably shouldn't be doing this—showing up at his hotel uninvited—but he won't answer your calls and you need to see him, need to explain.

You head for the elevators, pull out your phone to check his message from yesterday. Room 2401.

Twenty-fourth floor and the elevator ride up feels like it takes a year.

You find his room and knock. Once. Twice, and nothing.

"Lando," you call. "I know you're in there. Your location says you're here. Please open the door."

Silence.

"Lando, please. Let me explain—"

The door swings open and he's standing there in joggers and a McLaren t-shirt, hair damp like he's just showered. His face is carefully blank.

"Explain what?" he says, and his voice is cold. "How you wrote that I'm reckless? That I'm immature? That I cost the team points with my 'unforced errors'?"

"I was doing my job—"

"Your job," he repeats, and he laughs, but there's no humor in it. "Right. Your job. Writing about how I fucked up. About how I'm not ready to be a championship contender."

"That's not—I didn't say that—"

"You wrote that I need to show better judgment," he says, and he's still in the doorway, not letting you in. "That speed alone isn't enough. That I got it wrong. Did I get that right? Is that an accurate summary of your very professional, very objective article?"

"Lando—"

"You know what the worst part is?" he continues, and there's hurt in his voice now, underneath the anger. "I trusted you. I thought—fuck, I thought you were different. That you saw me as more than just a story. But you're just like everyone else, aren't you? Ready to tear me down the second I make a mistake."

"That's not fair—"

"Isn't it?" He crosses his arms. "You couldn't have written something neutral? Something less, less brutal?"

"I wrote the truth," you say, and your voice is shaking. "The crash was your fault, Lando. You went for a gap that wasn't there. You were too aggressive. That's not opinion, it's a damn fact."

"So what, I'm just supposed to, what, not push? Not try? Settle for safe?"

"You're supposed to use your brain!" you snap. "You're supposed to know when a move is worth the risk. That wasn't. You threw away points for nothing."

"For nothing," he repeats flatly. "Right. Thanks for the input."

"I'm a journalist, Lando. This is my job. I can't write fluff pieces just because we're—because of what we are."

"What are we?" he asks, and his eyes are hard. "Because right now it feels like I'm just another driver you interview. Another story, another one of your critical think-pieces."

"That's not true—"

"Then why did you write it?" he demands. "Why couldn't you have just, just written something softer?"

"Because that's not who I am!" You're frustrated now, angry. "You knew what I did when you started this. You knew I was a journalist. You knew I ask hard questions and write critical analysis. That's why you said you liked me because I was honest. Because I didn't blow smoke up your ass."

"There's a difference between honesty and cruelty."

"I wasn't cruel," you say. "I was accurate and if you can't handle that, if you can't separate my job from our relationship, then maybe this was a mistake."

Something flashes across his face, and before it can settle, it disappears all together. "Maybe it was," he says quietly.

"So that's it?" you say. "One article and you're done? You're going to throw this away because I did my job?"

"You made me look like an idiot," he says. "In front of everyone. My team, my fans, the entire fucking paddock. You wrote that I'm not ready. That I'm reckless. That I'm—" He stops, jaw clenching. "Do you have any idea how that feels? To have someone you care about tear you apart publicly?"

"I didn't tear you apart—"

"Yes, you did," he says. "You did. And you can stand here and tell me it was objective, that it was your job, that it was the truth. But it still fucking hurts."

"Lando—"

"I think you should go," he says, and his voice has gone flat. "I need, I need some space. To think."

"So you're just going to shut me out? Not even let me—"

"I'm asking you to leave," he says firmly. "Please."

You stare at him for a long moment. At the hurt in his eyes, the tension in his shoulders, the way he won't quite meet your gaze.

"Fine," you say. "Fine. If that's what you want."

"It is."

You turn to leave, but you can't help yourself. You look back.

"For what it's worth," you say quietly, "I'm sorry you crashed. I'm sorry you're hurt. But I'm not sorry I wrote the truth. That's my job and if you can't respect that, if you can't understand that I have to maintain my integrity as a journalist, then maybe you're right. Maybe this was a mistake."

You walk away before he can respond, before you can see his reaction.

The elevator ride down feels even longer than the ride up.

Your phone buzzes as you're crossing the lobby.

You stare at the message, vision blurring with tears you refuse to shed, and then, with a deep shaky breath, you delete his number.

The flight back to London is torture.

You stare at your phone for the entire six hours, willing it to buzz. Willing him to text you. Call you. Something. But there's nothing, absolutely nothing.

By the time you land at Heathrow on Monday morning, you've checked your phone approximately four hundred times. You've drafted seventeen different messages and deleted all of them. You've called his number twice before remembering you deleted it, had to look it up on the media list, stared at it for ten minutes, and done nothing.

He doesn't want to hear from you, has made it very clear.

Monday afternoon, you're back in your flat, staring at your laptop screen, trying to write your post-race analysis for the rest of the grid. Your editor wants 1200 words by 5 PM.

You've written six. Your phone rings and it's an unknown number.

You answer immediately. "Hello?"

"Hi, this is Sophie? From McLaren?" Lando's PR officer. Your stomach instantly drops. "I'm just calling to update you on media availability going forward."

"Okay," you say slowly.

"Lando has requested that his one-on-one interviews be directed to other journalists from The Grid," she says, and her voice is professional but not unkind. "He's happy to answer your questions in press conferences, but he'd prefer if James handles the individual interviews."

Your throat feels tight. "I see."

"I'm sorry," Sophie says, and she does sound genuinely apologetic. "I know you two had a good rapport. But he was quite insistent."

"It's fine," you lie. "Thank you for letting me know."

You hang up and stare at the wall.

He's cutting you off. Completely. Not just personally—professionally too.

"Fuck," you whisper.

Australia is two weeks later.

You fly out on Wednesday, arrive Thursday morning, and the first thing you see when you walk into the paddock is Lando. He's talking to Oscar outside the McLaren garage, laughing at something his teammate said. He looks good. Rested. Happy.

Like nothing happened. Like you didn't happen.

Your chest aches and for split second, he glances up, and your eyes meet. Something flashes across his face—too quick to identify—before he looks away, turning his attention back to Oscar like you don't exist.

Like you're no one. You force yourself to keep walking, head high, pretending it doesn't feel like someone's reached into your chest and squeezed.

Thursday's press conference is torture. You're in the third row, notebook out, recording app ready. Lando is on the panel with Oscar, Charles, George, and Alex. He's charming and funny, cracking jokes that make everyone laugh, answering questions with that easy confidence you remember.

He doesn't look at you once. Not once.

Even when you raise your hand and ask a question about McLaren's tire strategy, he lets Oscar answer it. Just sits there, examining his fingernails, like you're not even worth acknowledging.

James, sitting next to you, mutters, "He's being a dick."

"It's fine," you whisper back.

"It's not fine," James says. "He's acting like a child."

After the press conference, you head to the media pen. You have to be there but you know what's going to happen.

Lando comes to the media pen. He does his rounds. Sky Sports. ESPN. BBC, and then James.

You watch from fifteen feet away as Lando laughs at something James says, as he gives thoughtful answers to questions you should be asking. As he's perfectly pleasant and professional with your colleague while pretending you don't exist.

James looks uncomfortable. Lando doesn't care.

When the interview ends, James walks over to you. "That was awful."

"Did you get good quotes?"

"That's not the point—"

"That's exactly the point," you interrupt. "We're here to do a job. You got the quotes. That's what matters."

"You're allowed to be upset about this," James says quietly.

"I'm not upset," you lie. "I'm fine. It's fine. Everything's fine."

James gives you a look that says he doesn't believe you for a second, but he doesn't push.

You last three more races like this.

Japan. Lando qualifies P4, finishes P3. Refuses to speak to you.

China. Lando has a mechanical DNF on lap forty. You write an article about McLaren's reliability issues—factual, not critical of Lando at all. He still won't look at you.

Miami. Lando gets pole position. Leads the first twenty laps. Gets undercut by Ferrari and finishes P3. In the media pen, he jokes with James about the strategy call, and you stand there feeling like a fucking ghost.

By the time Monaco rolls around in late May, you're exhausted.

Exhausted from pretending you're fine. Exhausted from watching him laugh with James while ignoring you. Exhausted from writing professional, objective articles about him while your heart feels like it's being ripped apart every time you see him.

James corners you Wednesday evening at the hotel bar.

"Okay," he says, sliding into the seat across from you. "We need to talk about this."

"There's nothing to talk about."

"There clearly is," James says. "You've been miserable for weeks. Ever since Jeddah and I know Lando's been freezing you out over that article, but—" He pauses. "This seems like more than just professional frustration."

You don't say anything. Can't say anything.

"Look, I don't know what happened between you two," James continues carefully. "And you don't have to tell me. But whatever it is, you can't let him run you out of this job. You're too good at what you do."

"I'm not letting him run me out."

"Aren't you?" James challenges gently. "Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you're barely holding it together."

You stare into your wine glass. "I can't do this anymore."

"What do you mean?"

"This, and I mean all of this." You gesture vaguely. "I can't keep showing up at races, watching him pretend I don't exist. I can't keep writing about him, analyzing his performances, being professional while he's—" Your voice cracks. "I just can't."

James is quiet for a moment. "What are you saying?"

You take a deep breath. "I'm quitting."

"What?" James looks genuinely shocked. "No. You can't, c'mon, this is your dream job. You've worked so hard to get here."

"I know."

"Then why would you—" He stops, studying your face. "Whatever happened between you two, it must have been serious."

"It was," you whisper. "It is. And I can't, I can't keep doing this, James. Seeing him every weekend. Being in the same paddock. Watching him laugh and be happy while I," You stop yourself. "I need to leave. Before it destroys me completely."

"Where will you go?"

"I don't know yet," you admit. "Maybe features writing. Maybe culture journalism. Something that doesn't involve motorsport."

"You love motorsport," James says softly. "It's all you've ever wanted to write about."

"I know," you say, and your eyes are burning. "But I love," You stop. Can't say it. "I can't stay, not like this."

James reaches across the table and squeezes your hand. "I'm really sorry. Whatever happened. You didn't deserve this."

"Thanks," you manage.

"When are you going to tell Sarah?"

"After Monaco," you say. "I'll finish the weekend. Write my articles and then I'll hand in my notice."

Monaco race day is Sunday.

Lando wins from pole. It's a controlled, dominant performance—no mistakes, no drama, just pure racing excellence. He leads every lap, manages the tires perfectly, and crosses the line to win the most prestigious race on the calendar.

The celebration is massive. Champagne on the podium. The team going wild. Lando standing on the top step, trophy in hand, looking happier than you've ever seen him.

You write your article from the media center, tears blurring your vision.

Your last article about Lando Norris, you hit send and close your laptop.

Then you open your email and start typing.

To: Sarah Adams Subject: Resignation - 4 Weeks Notice Dear Sarah, Please accept this email as formal notice of my resignation from The Grid, effective four weeks from today. This has been an incredibly difficult decision. Working for The Grid has been a dream come true, and I'm grateful for every opportunity you've given me. However, due to personal circumstances, I need to step away from motorsport journalism. I've accepted a position at The Guardian covering arts and culture. I will of course fulfill all my obligations over the next four weeks and ensure a smooth transition for my replacement. Thank you for everything. Best regards, [Your Name]

You read it three times. Then you hit send before you can talk yourself out of it, and your phone rings immediately. Sarah.

"What the hell is this?" she demands the second you answer.

"My resignation."

"I can see that. Why?"

"Personal reasons," you say carefully.

"Personal reasons," Sarah repeats. "You're giving up motorsport for personal reasons?"

"Yes."

"Does this have something to do with Norris?" Sarah asks bluntly. "With him freezing you out?"

"Partially," you admit.

"So you're letting a driver's tantrum force you out of your dream job?"

"It's not—" You stop. Take a breath. "Sarah, I can't do this anymore. I can't show up at races and pretend I'm fine when I'm not. I can't keep being professional when—" Your voice cracks. "I just can't."

Sarah is quiet for a long moment. "Did something happen between you two? Beyond the article?"

You don't answer.

"Right," Sarah says slowly. "That's what I thought. Look, I'm not going to pry. But I am going to say this, you're one of the best journalists I've ever worked with. Young, yes. But brilliant and if Lando Norris is too immature to handle fair criticism from a journalist he's involved with, then that's his damned problem, not yours."

"I know that," you whisper. "But it doesn't change how I feel."

"No," Sarah agrees. "I suppose it doesn't." She sighs. "Okay. Four weeks. But if you change your mind—"

"I won't."

"If you do," Sarah continues, "the door is always open. Always."

"Thank you."

You hang up and stare at your laptop screen, and it's done.

In four weeks, you'll be gone. No more paddock, there will be no more races, and no more Lando.

You should feel relieved, instead, you just feel hollow.

The next four weeks pass in a blur.

Canada. Barcelona. Austria. Silverstone. You write your articles. You do your job. You watch Lando from a distance—P2 in Canada, P4 in Barcelona, a DNF in Austria due to mechanical failure, P3 at his home race in Silverstone.

He never speaks to you. Hell, he barely even looks at you. Acts like you're invisible and you let him.

Because in three days, you'll be done. You'll hand in your paddock pass, pack up your laptop, and walk away from the sport you've loved your entire life.

Because of him, your last race is Silverstone. Sunday. The British Grand Prix.

Lando finishes P3 behind the two Mercedes, and the crowd goes wild. It's a good result. A podium at home.

Monday morning, you hand in your paddock pass at the FIA media center.

"Leaving us?" the coordinator asks.

"New job," you say with a smile that doesn't reach your eyes. "Time for a change."

"Well, good luck," she says. "You'll be missed."

You walk out of the paddock, and you don't look back, you don't let yourself look at the McLaren garage as you pass.

You don't let yourself think about the fact that you're walking away from everything you've ever wanted.

You just keep walking, with one foot in front of the other.

Until you're in your car. Until you're driving away from Silverstone. Until you're on the M1 heading back to London.

And only then do you let yourself cry.

Lando's POV

The first time Lando realizes something is wrong is Tuesday after Silverstone. He's in the McLaren factory for a debrief, going through data from the race, when Zak mentions something about finding a replacement for one of their regular media contacts.

"Replacement for who?" Lando asks, only half paying attention.

"The Grid," Zak says. "Apparently their F1 correspondent left. Moved to arts and culture or something. Shame, really. She was good."

Lando's head snaps up. "What?"

"The journalist. The young one, she's the one that used to do our interviews." Zak frowns. "You know, the one who wrote that piece about your Jeddah crash. What was her name—"

"She left?" Lando interrupts, his heart suddenly pounding.

"Yeah. Last week, I think. James is taking over her assignments." Zak shrugs. "Why? Did you know her?"

Lando can't breathe. "No. I—no. Just surprised, that's all."

He pulls out his phone the second the meeting ends, scrolling to her contact. It's still there. He never deleted it, even though he told himself a thousand times he should.

He stares at it for a long moment. At your name. At the last message thread from months ago, back when things were good. Back when you'd text him goodnight and he'd call her at midnight just to hear your voice.

His thumb hovers over the call button. He hasn't spoken to you since Jeddah. Hasn't even looked at you properly since then. Just froze you out completely, did his interviews with James, pretended you didn't exist.

Because it was easier than facing what you'd written. Easier than admitting how much it had hurt, and now you're gone, and he doesn't know what to do with that information.

He calls you Wednesday night. It rings four times before going to voicemail. Your voice, god, your sweet voice, asks him to leave a message.

He hangs up and tries again an hour later. Voicemail again, he doesn't leave a message this time either.

Thursday afternoon, he tries a third time. This time it only rings twice before going to voicemail, and it dawns on him that you're declining his calls.

He stares at his phone for a long moment, then types out a message. Then another, and another.

He calls again. It goes straight to voicemail this time. You've blocked him.

"Fuck," he mutters, running a hand through his hair.

Saturday night, Lando is in his apartment, wine glass in hand, scrolling through The Guardian's website.

Your byline is easy to find. You're writing about art exhibitions now. Theater reviews. Cultural criticism.

Nothing about motorsport. Nothing about racing.

You've completely walked away from it, and it's his fucking fault. He clicks on your author page and reads every article you've published since leaving The Grid. They're brilliant, they're smart and insightful and exactly the kind of writing that made him fall for you in the first place.

But they're not about racing, you loved racing. It was your dream. Your grandad had gotten you into it, how racing was everything you'd ever wanted to write about. And, yet, you'd given it up.

Because of him, with a deep breath he opens a new email.

To: [your email at The Guardian] Subject: I'm sorry

He stares at the blank message for ten minutes. What does he even say? How does he apologize for months of cruelty? How does he make you understand that he was hurt and angry and stupid, and he took it all out on you?

How does he tell you that he's sorry without it sounding hollow?

He closes the email without writing anything. Words aren't enough, he knows nothing he can say will fix what he did.

Wednesday afternoon, he's at the McLaren factory when he gets an idea. He pulls up The Guardian's website again, finds the contact page, and writes an email.

To: [general Guardian arts desk email] Subject: Interview Request Hello, My name is Lando Norris, and I'm a Formula 1 driver for McLaren Racing. I'm going to be in London next week for some commercial commitments, and I wondered if The Guardian would be interested in an interview for your sports section. I know this is unusual given that I'm not typically your coverage area, but I have a particular journalist in mind who I think would be perfect for the piece. [Your name]. I understand she's moved to arts and culture, but I'd specifically like to work with her if possible. Please let me know if this would be of interest. Best regards, Lando Norris

He reads it three times, then hits send before he can talk himself out of it. It's manipulative. He knows that.

But it's also the only way he can think of to see you again, to have a chance to apologize. To try—however futile it might be—to fix what he broke.

His phone buzzes an hour later and it's an email from The Guardian.

Subject: RE: Interview Request Mr. Norris, Thank you for your interest in The Guardian. We'd certainly be interested in an interview. However, I should let you know that [your name] specifically requested not to be assigned any motorsport-related pieces. I can offer you one of our sports journalists instead—

Lando closes the email without finishing it. You don't want to see him. You've made that explicitly clear. You've changed your number. Blocked him. Moved to a different section of journalism entirely. Asked not to cover motorsport.

You've done everything possible to get away from him and he needs to respect that.

Even if it's killing him.

Your POV

Three months later, you're in Monaco for work. The Guardian is doing a feature on Monaco's contemporary art scene, the surprising underbelly of culture in a city known primarily for wealth and excess. Your editor thought you'd be perfect for it.

You'd tried to say no.

"It's Monaco," you'd told Jessica over the phone. "I can't, there are reasons I can't go to Monaco."

She insisted, and because you wanted to keep your job, you very reluctantly gave in.

Tuesday arrives, and you fly into Nice, take the short train to Monaco, and check into your hotel in Fontvieille.

The city is exactly as you remember it from the one time you'd been here for the Grand Prix, opulent, excessive, beautiful in that way that only money can buy. You spend Tuesday and Wednesday doing interviews. Gallery owners, artists, curators. Everyone has thoughts on Monaco's emerging art scene, on how the city is trying to position itself as more than just a playground for the ultra-wealthy.

Wednesday night, your friend Tina, your flatmate from London who's coincidentally in Nice for work, takes the train over to have dinner with you.

"This place is insane," Emma says as you walk through the harbor, past yachts that cost more than most people make in a lifetime. "How do people live here?"

"Very expensively," you say.

Dinner is at a small restaurant in Le Marché de la Condamine—intimate, tucked away, the kind of place locals go rather than tourists. You're halfway through your meal when you excuse yourself to use the restroom. The bathroom is down a narrow hallway at the back of the restaurant. You're walking back toward your table when someone grabs your hand and pulls you sideways into a small alcove near the kitchen entrance.

Your heart stops, because it's him. Lando and he's wearing a black t-shirt and jeans, hair longer than you remember, and he looks terrible.

"What—" you start, but he's already talking.

"Please," he says, and his voice is rough. "Please, just—just give me five minutes. That's all I'm asking. Five minutes."

"Let go of me," you say, trying to pull your hand away.

He doesn't. His grip tightens, desperate. "Please. I know you don't want to see me. I know you blocked my number and changed yours and I know, I know you hate me. But please just give me five minutes to explain."

"There's nothing to explain."

"There's everything to explain," he interrupts. "Please. Five minutes. And if you still want nothing to do with me after that, I'll leave. I'll never contact you again. I promise. Just—please."

You should say no. Should pull your hand away and walk back to your table and pretend this didn't happen. But there's something in his eyes. Something desperate and broken and so unlike the confident driver you remember.

"Five minutes," you say. "That's it."

Relief floods his face. "Okay. Okay, yes. Thank you."

"I know," he says. "I know I am. But I need you to know—I need you to understand that I was hurt. And angry, and stupid, and I took it all out on you when you were just doing your job."

"You're right," you say. "I was doing my job, and you punished me for it until I had to quit."

To read the remainder of this fic, please go to AO3. Link is here. Tumblr has a restriction of 1,000 blocks and I wanted to complete this in one go. Start in chapter 2, as chapter one is just there for new readers, thank you so much for reading.

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