Chapter 11: Cracks
࣪ ִֶָ☾. summary ━━━━━━━ After her mother's call, Y/N breaks down in Lando's arms, but panic overwhelms her, and she pushes him away, unable to trust that his feelings are genuine. Later, she meets Pietra for coffee but still can't reveal the soulmate secret. Meanwhile, Lando drives to his parents and confesses everything.
࣪ ִֶָ☾. pairing ━━━━━━━ Lando Norris x she!reader
࣪ ִֶָ☾. word count ━━━━━━━ 21.5k
࣪ ִֶָ☾. warnings ━━━━━━━ heavy angst, crying
࣪ ִֶָ☾. author's note ━━━━━━━ I apologise if there’s too much repetition in some places. My brain is literally fried from reading the same thing over and over again
Series Masterlist
"I've got you," Lando whispered against her hair, his voice breaking, thick with tears. "I've got you, Y/N. I'm here. I'm not letting go."
She only cried harder at that, and Lando felt his heart crack further. How long had it been since someone had held her like this? How long had it been since someone had told her it was okay to fall apart? How long had it been since someone had caught her when she did?
Too long. Far, far too long.
Y/N hated this—hated that she was crying, hated that she was falling apart, hated that it was happening in front of Lando of all people. But God, his arms around her felt impossibly good. Like heaven. Like everything she'd never known she was missing. She knew it was the soulmate bond doing this to her, making her weak, making his touch feel like salvation itself. And right now, after that phone call with her mum, after hearing those words that cut deeper than any physical wound ever could, she didn't have the energy to fight it. She couldn't push him away even though every instinct screamed that she should.
Her sobs were becoming words now, broken and fragmented and barely coherent. "I'm sorry," she kept saying, the words muffled against his chest. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."
"Don't apologize," Lando said fiercely, pulling her impossibly closer, wishing he could somehow absorb her into himself, keep her safe inside his ribcage where nothing could hurt her ever again. "Don't you dare apologize. You have nothing—nothing—to be sorry for."
But she did. She was sorry for being weak, for breaking down, for showing him just how easily he could destroy her defenses. Two months ago—hell, even two weeks ago—she would have never let this happen. Would have locked herself in the bathroom and cried alone, would have swallowed the pain until she could process it in private, would have never, ever let anyone see her like this. Especially not Lando. But he'd been breaking down her walls since the moment he found out she was his soulmate, chipping away at her defenses with every kind word, every genuine smile, every moment of actually seeing her. And this—him holding her like this, apologizing to her like this—it was breaking another wall. She could feel it crumbling inside her chest, and she absolutely hated it because she was still terrified of letting him in.
And she kept apologizing anyway, because that's what she'd been taught to do. To apologize for taking up space, for having feelings, for being human enough to hurt when the person who should love her most used that love as a weapon instead.
Her tears were for so many things. For her mum's words still echoing in her ears—the disappointment, the criticism, the casual cruelty disguised as concern. Frustration and anger and hurt all tangled together in her chest until she couldn't separate one from the other. But she was also crying because she was furious with herself for this moment of weakness, for letting Lando see her like this, for proving that she wasn't as strong as she pretended to be. And worst of all—most infuriating of all—she was crying because being in his arms felt this good. She'd never felt anything like this in her entire life, and it enraged her that he could make her feel this way, that simply being close to him felt like coming home to a place she'd never been.
Lando felt rage building in his chest alongside the grief. Rage at her parents for doing this to her. Rage at her mother for that phone call, for every cruel word, for the systematic dismantling of Y/N's self-worth. Rage at himself for contributing to it, for spending so much time treating her like she was nothing, for adding his voice to the chorus telling her she wasn't enough.
How dare her parents call themselves her family when they'd spent her entire life tearing her down? How dare they claim to love her while destroying the very essence of who she was? How dare they convince her that their cruelty was care, that their abuse was honesty, that their systematic destruction of her spirit was preparation for the real world?
And how dare he—Lando Norris, the man who was supposed to be her soulmate—have treated her exactly the same way? For over a year, he'd been cold and dismissive and cruel. Had questioned her worth, her ambition, her competence. Had made her feel small and invisible and unimportant. Had proven every horrible thing her parents had taught her to believe about herself.
No wonder she couldn't believe his feelings now were real. Why would she? Everyone in her life had taught her that she wasn't worthy of genuine love or care. And he'd just added his voice to that chorus, had reinforced every painful lesson her parents had drilled into her.
The realization made him cry harder, his own sobs mixing with hers. He was part of the problem. He'd hurt her. For more than a year, he'd hurt her in the exact same ways her parents had hurt her, and he hadn't even realized it until now. Hadn't understood the depth of the damage he was causing.
"I'm sorry," Lando choked out, the words torn from somewhere deep in his chest. "Y/N, I'm so fucking sorry. For everything. For every moment I made you feel like they were right. For every time I treated you like you weren't enough. For being exactly like them. I'm so sorry."
Y/N's crying intensified at his words, her fingers clutching tighter at his shirt, her whole body trembling like a leaf in a storm. She made sounds that didn't sound quite human—broken, animal sounds of pure grief that tore Lando apart from the inside out.
And she was crying because she wanted him. God help her, she wanted Lando Norris so badly it physically hurt. Wanted him to keep holding her like this forever, wanted him to mean every word he was saying, wanted to believe that this could be real and lasting and safe. But wanting him was the most terrifying thing of all because it meant giving him the power to hurt her even more than he already had. It meant trusting him with the parts of herself she'd spent a lifetime protecting. And that frustration—the frustration of wanting something she was too afraid to reach for—made her cry even harder.
He kept holding her, kept whispering reassurances, kept trying to pour every ounce of love and regret and desperate need to fix this into the way he held her. His hand moved in slow, continuous strokes through her hair—God, her hair was so soft, so perfect, and he'd wanted to touch it for so long but never been allowed, never been invited into her space like this.
Now that he finally was, now that she was finally letting him hold her, all he could think about was how he'd wasted so much time. More than a year of keeping her at arm's length, over a year of cruelty and coldness, over a year when he could have been doing this—holding her, comforting her, being the person she came to when she was hurting instead of the person who caused the hurt.
His hand in her hair felt too good. Everything about this felt too good. The solid warmth of his chest against her cheek, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath her ear, the way his arms wrapped around her like he was trying to shield her from the entire world. It was the soulmate bond, she told herself desperately. It had to be. This couldn't be real—couldn't be her actually wanting this, actually needing this. But even as she told herself that, she knew she was lying. And that knowledge, that admission even just in the privacy of her own mind, made her feel more vulnerable than she'd ever felt in her life.
Time lost meaning. Lando had no idea how long they stood there in the middle of her open-plan living space, wrapped around each other, both of them crying, both of them breaking and healing and breaking again. The morning sun climbed higher, sending golden light through her windows. Outside, London continued its Saturday rhythm—traffic sounds, distant sirens, the general hum of city life. But in here, in this moment, there was only them.
Eventually, Lando realized his legs were shaking from holding them both upright for so long. His muscles were protesting, his back starting to ache, but he didn't want to let go, didn't want to risk her pulling away if he suggested moving.
But they couldn't stand here forever.
"Come here," he murmured against her hair, his voice gentle and coaxing. "Let me hold you properly."
He guided them toward the sofa, never loosening his hold on her, moving them together like they were dancing, like they were one unit instead of two separate people. When they reached it, Lando sat down and pulled Y/N with him, settling her in his lap.
She curled into him instinctively, immediately, like her body knew where it belonged even if her mind was still fighting it. Her face remained buried against his neck, her breath hot and uneven against his skin. Her legs drew up, tucking against his thigh, making herself as small as possible. One of her hands was still fisted in his shirt, holding on like she was afraid he might disappear if she let go.
And God, she loved this. Loved the feeling of him beneath her, around her, everywhere. Loved being in his lap, loved him holding her like this. She wanted to stay like this forever—wrapped in his arms, safe in his lap, hidden from the rest of the world. In this moment, the anger that had been her constant companion for so long just... faded. Dissolved. All she could focus on was feeling him—the solid warmth of his body, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the way his hands held her like she was something precious. She wasn't overthinking anymore, wasn't analyzing or questioning or fighting. She was just... feeling. Just being. Just existing in this moment with him.
Lando wrapped himself around her completely, protectively. His arms formed a cage around her—not to trap her, but to keep her safe, to shield her from the entire world if he could. One hand cradled the back of her head, fingers tangling in her hair again, thumb stroking gently behind her ear. The other arm locked around her waist, his palm spread flat across her back, feeling every shuddering breath she took.
He never wanted to let her go. Not now, not ever. She felt absolutely perfect in his arms—like she'd been made to fit there, like every curve of her body had been designed to press against him exactly like this. But with every sob that shook her frame, with every shuddering breath she took, he hated himself more. The more she cried, the more the reality of what he'd done crashed over him in devastating waves. He'd contributed to this. He'd added to her pain. He'd hurt his own soulmate for over a year, and the realization was breaking him into pieces. He wanted to scream at himself, wanted to shake himself, wanted to go back in time and beat sense into his past self. How could he have been so blind? How could he have been so cruel?
His own tears fell freely now, uncontrollably, sliding down his face and disappearing into her hair. He didn't try to stop them. Didn't try to regain control. How could he, when the woman he loved was falling apart in his arms? When he could feel the magnitude of her pain, could understand finally the depth of damage that had been done to her?
And he was understanding it now—truly understanding it for the first time. The depth of the hurt he'd caused. Every cold word, every dismissive glance, every moment he'd treated her like she was invisible or unimportant. He'd spent such a long time hurting his own soulmate, reinforcing every painful lesson her parents had taught her, proving to her that she wasn't worthy of love or care or kindness. The magnitude of it was crushing him, suffocating him. This was his soulmate—the person he was meant to love and protect and cherish—and he'd spent more than a year doing the exact opposite. How could he ever forgive himself for that? How could she ever forgive him?
This was what he'd been searching for his entire life without knowing it. Not the racing, not the fame, not the success or the money or the glory. This. Just this. Holding Y/N, feeling her weight in his arms, breathing in the scent of her shampoo, feeling her heart beat against his chest.
Even in her pain, even in her breaking, being able to hold her felt like a gift. Like something sacred and precious that he didn't deserve but had been given anyway.
Y/N shifted slightly in his lap, and Lando felt something inside him settle. She wasn't pulling away. She was burrowing closer, seeking more comfort, more contact. Her crying had quieted to softer sobs now, less violent, but no less heartbreaking.
She couldn't pull away even if she wanted to. Didn't want to. The anger would come back later—she knew it would, knew she'd rebuild her walls and remember why she'd built them in the first place. But right now, in this moment, all she wanted was to stay exactly where she was. In his lap. In his arms. Feeling him surround her, feeling him hold her like she mattered, like she was worth holding.
"You're not nothing," Lando said fiercely, the words tumbling out of him like a confession, like a prayer. "Do you hear me, Y/N? You're not nothing. You're everything. You're everything."
She made a broken sound against his neck, something between a sob and a whimper, and her fingers clutched tighter at his shirt.
"Your parents are wrong," Lando continued, unable to stop now that he'd started, needing her to hear this, needing her to understand. "They're so fucking wrong. You're not reaching above your station—there is no station. There's just you and me. Just two people who were meant to find each other. And you're my equal in every way that matters. You're brilliant and strong and you've survived things that should have broken you. Things that would have broken me."
His words hit her like physical blows—but good ones, healing ones, even though they hurt. No one had ever said these things to her before. No one had ever called her brilliant or strong or told her she'd survived something that would have broken them. Part of her wanted to reject his words, to push them away like she'd been taught to do with any compliment, any kindness. But a larger part—a part she'd been trying so hard to ignore—desperately wanted to believe him. Wanted to let his words sink in and take root somewhere deep inside her chest.
Y/N's breathing had changed again, becoming even less frantic, more steady. But she still hadn't said anything. Still hadn't pulled away. Her face remained hidden in the crook of his neck, her tears still falling but quieter now, soaking into his skin.
Lando felt the shift in her breathing and something in his chest loosened just slightly. She was listening. She wasn't running. She was letting him hold her, letting him say these things, and that had to mean something. It had to. He'd been terrified she would push him away, would shut him out completely after this. But she was still here, still in his arms, still letting him hold her. It was more than he deserved, more than he'd dared to hope for.
"I'm sorry," Lando said again, his voice cracking on the words. "I'm so fucking sorry for every moment I made you feel like they were right. Like you weren't enough. For more than a year, I treated you like you were invisible, like you didn't matter. I questioned your ambition, your work ethic, your competence. I made you feel small and I didn't even realize I was doing it. I didn't realize I was just... repeating what they'd already taught you. Reinforcing it."
Each word he said carved deeper into him, opening up wounds he'd inflicted on himself with his own blindness and cruelty. Every specific instance was flooding back now—every dismissive comment, every time he'd walked past her without acknowledgment, every meeting where he'd questioned her ideas or contributions. The memories were like knives, each one a reminder of how badly he'd failed her. Failed them. How many times had he made her feel exactly the way her parents made her feel? How many times had he proven their cruelty right?
He felt Y/N tense slightly in his arms, and he kept talking, needing to get this out, needing her to understand the depth of his regret.
She tensed because his words were too accurate, too specific. He understood. He actually understood what he'd done to her, how he'd made her feel. And that understanding—that he could see it now, could articulate it, could acknowledge the specific ways he'd hurt her—it made something inside her chest crack open even wider. She'd spent so long thinking no one could see her pain, that no one would ever understand. But he saw it. He understood. And that realization was almost more overwhelming than the pain itself.
"You deserved so much better than what I gave you. What they gave you. You deserved to be built up, not torn down. You deserved to be told every single day how remarkable you are, how extraordinary, how much you matter. Instead, you got me being a complete asshole to you because I was too blind and stupid to see what was right in front of me."
He meant it. Every word. And the realization that he'd wasted so much time—over a year of being the exact thing she didn't need, when he could have been what she did need—was crushing him. She'd been right there, his soulmate, the person he was meant to cherish and protect, and he'd treated her like she was nothing. Like she was a burden. Like she was unworthy of even basic respect. The weight of that failure pressed down on him until he could barely breathe.
She couldn't speak. Didn't trust her voice not to break, didn't trust what would come out if she tried to form words. So she stayed silent, stayed pressed against him, let his words wash over her while his arms held her together. She was still crying but it felt different now—less like breaking apart and more like... releasing something. Something she'd been holding onto for far too long. And being held while she released it, being safe in his lap while she let it go, felt like the only thing keeping her from shattering completely.
The feel of her in his arms was grounding him even as it was breaking him apart. Each stroke through her hair, each circle his palm traced on her back, each breath she took against his neck—it all reminded him of what he'd almost lost, what he'd been throwing away for so long. And her mother's voice kept replaying in his head, those casual, cutting words delivered like they were nothing, like destroying your daughter's sense of self-worth was just another Saturday morning conversation. The rage that sparked in him at the memory made his jaw clench, made his arms tighten protectively around Y/N.
They sat like that for what felt like hours. Lando lost track of time—twenty minutes, thirty, an hour. It stopped meaning anything. There was just Y/N in his arms, breathing with him, existing with him in this small bubble where nothing else could touch them.
Time had stopped having meaning for Y/N too. She'd cried herself out, exhausted herself, and now she was just... existing. Being held. Being safe. The storm of emotions that had torn through her was beginning to settle into something quieter, something almost peaceful. She knew she should pull away, should rebuild her defenses, should remember all the reasons why letting Lando hold her like this was dangerous. But she couldn't. Not yet. Just a few more minutes, she told herself. Just a little longer in this moment where nothing hurt quite as much.
He could feel her heart beating against his chest, could feel the rise and fall of her breathing gradually syncing with his. Could feel the weight of her in his lap, the warmth of her body pressed against his, the softness of her hair against his palm.
Every physical detail was imprinting itself on his memory—the exact weight of her, the specific rhythm of her breathing, the precise texture of her hair between his fingers. He was memorizing this moment because he was terrified it might be the only time she ever let him hold her like this. Terrified that once she pulled away, once her walls came back up, she'd never let him this close again. So he was cataloging every sensation, every detail, storing it all away like treasure.
She felt like home. Like safety. Like everything he'd been looking for without knowing he was searching for it.
And to Y/N, being held by him felt like something she couldn't quite name. Not home—she'd never really had one of those. But something close to it. Something that felt like what home was supposed to feel like. Like maybe, possibly, this could be what safety felt like. What being cherished felt like. It terrified her how much she wanted it, how much she wanted to believe this could be real and lasting. How much she wanted to stop fighting and just... let herself have this.
The dream from the night before flashed through his mind—their daughter with Y/N's stubbornness and his eyes, the life they could build together, the home they could make. It felt both impossibly far away and heartbreakingly close. So close he could almost reach out and touch it, if only Y/N would let herself believe it was possible.
Y/N had no idea what Lando was thinking about, but her own mind was starting to drift toward the future despite her best efforts to keep it anchored in the present. What if she let herself hope? What if she let herself believe that this—whatever this was between them—could actually work? The possibility was so fragile, so terrifying, that even thinking about it felt dangerous. Like she was jinxing it just by acknowledging it existed. But lying here in his arms, feeling his heartbeat steady and strong beneath her ear, it was getting harder and harder to convince herself that hope was pointless.
But then reality started creeping back in, cold and insistent. The fog of exhaustion and emotion that had been protecting her began to lift, and with brutal clarity, Y/N realized what she'd just done. What she'd let happen. She'd cried in front of Lando. Not just cried—she'd completely fallen apart in front of him. Let him hold her while she sobbed like a child. Let him witness the phone call with her mum, let him hear every cruel word, every piece of her fucked-up family dynamic laid bare. She'd let him see her weak, vulnerable, broken. She'd curled up in his lap like she belonged there, like she had any right to seek comfort from him after spending months pushing him away. The walls she'd spent years carefully constructing, the armor she'd built to protect herself from him—she'd let it all crumble in less than an hour. Panic started rising in her chest, cold and sharp. What had she done? What had she given him? She'd handed him ammunition, shown him exactly where and how to hurt her, exposed every raw nerve and open wound. And worse—so much worse—she'd shown him how easily he could break through her defenses. How badly she wanted him to.
But she was pulling away now, the moment breaking, reality crashing back in. Lando felt it happening—felt her walls starting to rebuild themselves, the way she always did when things got too intense, too real, too vulnerable. Y/N lifted her head from his neck, just enough for him to catch the shift in her eyes. The fear flooding back. Her remembering that she'd just spent the last however long crying in his arms, being held by him, letting him see her at her most broken.
She needed distance. Now. Needed to get away from him before she did something even more stupid, like telling him she didn't want him to leave. Like asking him to stay and hold her longer. Like admitting that being in his arms had felt better than anything in her entire life. No. She had to shut this down, had to rebuild the walls, had to protect herself before it was too late. Before she let herself hope for something that would only destroy her in the end.
"No," Lando said immediately, his arms tightening around her instinctively. His voice was desperate, pleading. "Don't. Please don't do that."
Panic was clawing up her throat. She could feel him trying to hold on, could feel herself wanting to let him, and that terrified her more than anything. She'd shown him too much, given him too much power. She had to take it back. Had to protect herself.
And it was already happening. She was pulling away, physically and emotionally, retreating behind the barriers she'd spent years constructing. Lando tried to hold on, tried to keep her close, but he could feel her starting to panic, could see the way her breathing was speeding up, could sense her need to escape.
He was losing her. Right here, right now, he was losing her and there was nothing he could do to stop it. The fear was suffocating, making it hard to breathe. After everything they'd just shared, after holding her while she cried, after finally understanding the depth of what she'd been through—she was shutting him out anyway. And he had no idea how to stop it.
He loosened his hold—not letting go, but giving her space, not wanting to make her feel trapped—and watched helplessly as she scrambled out of his lap. The loss of her warmth was immediate and devastating. His arms felt empty, useless, aching for her weight, for her presence, for the connection they'd just shared.
Y/N stood up quickly, putting the couch between them like it was a barrier that could protect her, like maintaining physical distance could somehow undo what had just happened, could somehow erase the vulnerability she'd shown him.
The couch between them wasn't enough. She needed more space, needed to regain control, needed to remember who she was—someone who didn't break down, didn't need comfort, didn't let people see her weak. She had to fix this, had to put everything back the way it was supposed to be.
"This was a mistake," she said, her voice eerily calm now, that same controlled tone she'd used with her mother. The transformation was terrifying—from broken and vulnerable to locked down and distant in a matter of seconds. "This was a mistake."
"No," Lando said, standing up from the couch, his heart hammering in his chest. He could feel panic rising in his throat, could feel the moment slipping away from them. "No, this wasn't a mistake. Y/N, please—"
"You need to leave," she interrupted, still in that calm voice that meant she was shutting herself down, locking herself away. She pointed toward the door, her face a blank slate, all emotion carefully hidden. "I need you to leave."
Say it. Make him go. If he stays, you'll break again. You'll let him in further. You'll start believing this could be real and then it'll hurt even more when it falls apart. Send him away. Protect yourself.
"I'm not going anywhere," Lando said desperately, taking a step toward her. She immediately took a step back, maintaining the distance between them, and the rejection felt like a physical blow. "Not like this. Not when you're hurting."
"I'm not hurting," she said, but her hands were shaking where she'd wrapped them around herself, betraying the lie. "I'm fine. I'm always fine."
"You're not fine!" Lando's voice rose, frustration and fear bleeding through. His own hands were shaking now, his whole body trembling with the need to go to her, to hold her again, to fix this somehow. "You just spent an hour crying in my arms. You're not fine, and that's okay. You don't have to be fine all the time."
"I shouldn't have let you see that." Y/N was still backing away, still putting more distance between them. "I shouldn't have cried in front of you. I shouldn't have let you hold me. It was a mistake."
Each word was a knife to his heart. She regretted it. Regretted letting him in, regretted showing him her pain, regretted the closeness they'd just shared. The moment that had meant everything to him was something she wanted to erase, to pretend never happened.
Every word she said was true and she hated that they hurt him. Could see them hurting him. But it was necessary. This was survival. This was self-preservation. This was the only way to protect herself from the inevitable devastation of believing in something that couldn't last.
"Why?" Lando asked, his voice breaking. He could feel tears threatening again, could feel his chest tightening with a different kind of pain now. "Why was it a mistake to let someone care about you?"
"Because I can't do this!" Y/N's voice rose, her carefully maintained control finally cracking. "I can't be the girl you cry over while you're holding hands with someone else for the cameras! I can't watch you be with her while you tell me you love me! I can't—" Her voice broke, and she pressed her hands to her face, trying to regain control. "I can't let myself believe any of this is real only to have it all fall apart. I've been through enough. I'm done."
And there it was. The truth she'd been avoiding. She couldn't watch him with Matilde anymore. Couldn't see those photos and pretend they didn't destroy her. Couldn't listen to him say he loved her while the whole world watched him pretend to love someone else. It was too much. She couldn't survive it.
"You're not done," Lando said, and he knew he should back off, should give her space, but he couldn't. Not now. Not after everything. "You're scared. And I get it—I'm scared too. But Y/N, what we have—"
"We don't have anything," Y/N interrupted, her hands dropping from her face. Her eyes were dry now, that careful control back in place, and it was more terrifying than her tears had been. "You have a contract with Matilde. You have a public image to maintain. You have obligations and appearances and a whole life that doesn't include me. So no, Lando. We don't have anything."
"The contract won't last forever—"
"And until it ends?" Y/N's laugh was bitter, hollow. "What am I supposed to do? Wait around while you parade with her? Watch you pretend to be in love with someone else? Hope that maybe someday you'll be free to claim me?" She shook her head, and Lando saw tears threatening again. "I can't do that. I won't. I deserve better than being someone's secret, someone's 'someday.'"
She did deserve better. She was absolutely right and it was killing him that he couldn't give it to her. That he'd trapped himself in this contract, in this lie, and now the woman he loved—his soulmate—was paying the price for his mistakes.
"You do deserve better," Lando agreed desperately, his own voice breaking again. "You deserve everything. But Y/N, please—"
"And I can't be with someone who treated me like the dirt under his shoes for such a long time," Y/N continued, her voice getting stronger, angrier. "Someone who called me miserable and broken and pathetic. Someone who told me—" Her voice cracked, but she pushed through. "Someone who told me that I 'suck the fucking joy out of every room I walk into.'"
The words hit Lando like a sledgehammer to the chest. He remembered that argument. Remembered saying those exact words to her, remembered the look on her face when he did, remembered the way she'd gone completely still before walking away. He'd been so angry, so frustrated at his inability to understand the bond, so furious at himself for wanting her when he thought he shouldn't. And he'd taken it all out on her.
He wanted to punch himself. Wanted to go back in time and beat the living shit out of the version of himself that had said those things to her. None of it had been real. Nothing he'd said had been real—it had all been his own fear and anger and self-hatred projected onto her. And he knew—God, he knew—that no amount of apologies would ever erase how he'd made her feel. Knew that "I'm sorry" was just words, meaningless in the face of the systematic destruction he'd inflicted on her for such a long time.
Y/N's hands were shaking now, her arms wrapped tight around herself. "I never forgot those words, Lando. I never forgot any of it. Every cruel thing you said, every time you made me feel small and worthless and like I didn't deserve to breathe the same air as you. You made me feel exactly the way my parents made me feel. And now you want me to just... what? Forget all of that because you say you're sorry? Because you suddenly decided I'm worth something?"
"No," Lando choked out, tears streaming down his face. "No, I don't expect you to forget. I don't expect you to forgive me. What I said to you—" His voice broke completely. "What I said to you was unforgivable. It was cruel and wrong and none of it was true. Not a single fucking word. I was angry at myself, at the situation, and I took it all out on you. And I know—I know—that saying sorry doesn't fix it. Doesn't erase how I made you feel. Doesn't undo over a year of treating you like you were nothing."
He could see every argument now with perfect, devastating clarity. Could remember every cutting remark, every dismissive comment, every moment he'd deliberately hurt her because hurting her felt safer than admitting he wanted her. He'd called her joy-sucking, broken, pathetic, miserable—had systematically torn her down the same way her parents had. Had proven to her that even her soulmate thought she was worthless. And now she was standing in front of him, throwing his own words back at him, and he had no defense. Because she was right. Everything she was saying was right.
"You're right," Lando said, his voice wrecked. "You're absolutely right. I treated you like dirt. I said things that were designed to hurt you, to break you down, to make you feel as small as possible. And I can stand here and say I didn't mean any of it, that I was lashing out because I was scared and confused and angry at myself. But that doesn't change what I did. That doesn't change how I made you feel. And I know—I know, Y/N—that no amount of apologizing will ever make up for it."
"My mother was right," Y/N said quietly, and those four words destroyed him more than anything else she could have said. "I'm reaching above my station. I'm expecting too much. I'm fooling myself into thinking someone like you could actually want someone like me."
No. No, she couldn't believe that. She couldn't let her mother's poison back in, not after everything. But even as the words left her mouth, part of her believed them. Had always believed them. Would probably always believe them.
"That's not true!" Lando took another step toward her, his hands outstretched, pleading. Tears were streaming down his face now, and he didn't care. "Your mother is wrong about everything. She's wrong about you, she's wrong about us, she's wrong about—"
"I embarrassed the whole family," Y/N continued, her voice getting smaller, more defeated. "I made her look bad."
She sounded like she believed it. Like she'd internalized every cruel word her mother had said. And watching her shrink into herself, watching her accept her mother's abuse as truth, was destroying him in ways he didn't know were possible.
"No," Lando said fiercely, finally closing the distance between them and gripping her shoulders gently. He could feel her trying to pull away, but he held on, needing her to hear this, needing her to understand. "She made herself look bad by calling her daughter to tear her down instead of checking if she was okay. She made herself look bad by being cruel instead of kind. That's on her, not you."
Y/N closed her eyes, fresh tears leaking out from between her lashes. "You don't understand. This is normal for her. This is... this is actually one of the better conversations we've had."
The words hit Lando like a physical blow, making him stagger slightly. His grip on her shoulders tightened, his own tears falling faster. This was one of the better conversations. Meaning there had been worse. Meaning the systematic destruction he'd witnessed was actually her mother being relatively kind.
How had she survived this? How had she made it through childhood, through adolescence, through her entire life with parents who treated her like this? The strength it must have taken, the resilience, the sheer determination to keep going despite being told every day that she wasn't enough—it staggered him. And it made him hate himself even more for adding to her pain instead of alleviating it.
"Y/N," he breathed, his voice destroyed by the weight of understanding.
"I know," she whispered, her eyes still closed. "I know it's not normal. I know it's not okay. But it's all I've ever known, and I don't... I don't know how to not believe her. She's my mum. She's supposed to know me better than anyone. And if she thinks I'm not good enough, if she thinks I'm reaching above my station, if she thinks I'm embarrassing and desperate and—"
"Stop," Lando interrupted, his voice rough with emotion. He released one of her shoulders to cup her face, his thumb wiping away her tears even as his own continued to fall. "Stop. Listen to me. She doesn't know you. She never did. Because if she knew you—really knew you—she could never say those things. She could never think those things."
His voice was shaking, breaking on every word, but he kept going. "You are not too much. You are not reaching above your station. You are not embarrassing. You are not any of the horrible things she said. Do you hear me?"
She wanted to believe him. God, she wanted to believe him so badly. But believing him meant accepting that her mother—the woman who raised her, who was supposed to love her—had been wrong about her for her entire life. And that felt impossible.
Y/N's face crumpled, and she buried it against his chest again, her fingers clutching at his already tear-soaked t-shirt. Lando wrapped his arms around her immediately, pulling her close, holding her tight, and they stood there in the middle of her living room, both of them crying again, both of them broken, both of them desperately trying to hold each other together.
"I see you," Lando whispered against her hair, his own sobs making his voice unsteady. "I see you, Y/N. And you are so much more than what she thinks. So much more than what she'll ever be capable of understanding. And I'm sorry—I'm so fucking sorry that you've had to spend your whole life believing you were less than you are because the people who should have told you the truth were too blind or too cruel to see it."
He meant it. Every word. And the fact that he could see her—really see her—when no one else ever had made something in her chest crack open even wider. It was terrifying and wonderful and devastating all at once.
Y/N's hands tightened in his t-shirt, pulling him impossibly closer, and Lando held her through another wave of tears—hers and his mixing together, their pain shared in a way that was both devastating and somehow healing.
They stood like that for a long time, wrapped around each other, crying together, existing in this space of shared grief and understanding. Lando lost track of time, lost track of everything except the feeling of Y/N in his arms and the knowledge that despite everything—despite her fear, despite his mistakes, despite her mother's cruelty and his own past coldness—they were here together, holding each other, letting each other in.
Eventually, inevitably, Y/N started to pull away again. This time, Lando let her go, his arms falling to his sides as she put distance between them once more. He could see the walls going back up again, could see her retreating into herself, and he knew what was coming.
She had to do this. Had to protect herself. She'd let herself break twice now in front of him, and she couldn't afford a third time. Couldn't afford to keep hoping, keep believing, keep letting him in. It would destroy her completely when it all fell apart.
"You need to leave," she said, and her voice was stronger now, more certain. Still tear-rough, but determined. "This—what just happened—that can't happen again."
"Why not?" Lando asked, though he already knew the answer. His own voice was wrecked, hoarse from crying, and he felt hollowed out, emptied of everything except the aching need to stay with her.
Y/N wrapped her arms around herself, that defensive posture he'd seen so many times before. "Because I can't keep doing this. I can't keep hoping and being disappointed. I can't keep thinking maybe this time it'll be different, maybe this time he'll actually choose me, and then watching you walk away again. It's killing me, Lando. Slowly, day by day, it's killing me."
The words destroyed what was left of his heart. He'd done this to her. He and her parents and everyone else who'd ever made her feel like she wasn't enough—they'd broken her down so completely that she couldn't even imagine being chosen, being valued, being loved without conditions.
She expected him to walk away. Was already bracing for it, already preparing herself for the inevitable abandonment. Because everyone always walked away eventually. Everyone always chose something—or someone—else over her.
"I'm not walking away," Lando said desperately. "Y/N, I'm not—"
"Yes, you are," she interrupted, moving toward the door and opening it. The gesture was clear, unmistakable. She wanted him gone. "You're going to leave now. And you're going to go back to your fake girlfriend and your contract obligations and your carefully managed public image. And I'm going to stay here and try to put myself back together. Again."
Again. Like she'd done this before. Like she'd spent her whole life breaking apart and having to reassemble herself alone. The thought made him want to scream, want to punch something, want to go back in time and protect her from every person who'd ever hurt her.
Lando stared at her, at the exhaustion in her eyes, at the resignation in her posture, at the way she was holding the door open like she couldn't wait for him to leave. Every instinct screamed at him to fight, to refuse, to stay until she understood that he meant every word he'd said.
But he could see how close she was to completely shattering. Could see that pushing her now would only break her further. And he'd hurt her enough already.
"Okay," he said quietly, the word feeling like surrender. Like defeat. Like the death of something precious. "I'll go."
He walked toward the door on legs that felt like they might give out at any moment. Each step was agony, every fiber of his being protesting, screaming at him to turn back, to stay, to fight for her. When he reached her, he paused, one hand on the doorframe, so close he could reach out and touch her if he dared.
Don't look at him. Don't let him see how much this is hurting you. Don't let him see that you want him to stay. Just let him go. It's better this way. Safer this way.
"I meant what I said," he told her, his voice rough and raw and completely destroyed. "About seeing you. About loving you. About all of it. This wasn't just about comforting you or feeling obligated because of a bond. I held you because I wanted to. Because I needed to. Because feeling you in my arms felt like coming home."
Y/N's jaw tightened, but she didn't respond, didn't look at him.
She couldn't look at him. If she looked at him, she'd break. She'd ask him to stay. She'd let herself hope again. And she couldn't survive that.
"And I'm going to fix this," Lando continued, tears threatening again. "The contract, the photos, all of it. I'm going to protect you from as much of this as I can. And then I'm going to come back, and I'm going to prove to you that we can make this work. That you're not ordinary or boring or any of the other things you've been told your whole life. You're extraordinary. And I'm not going to stop until you believe it."
Still nothing. She just stood there, holding the door, her expression carefully blank.
Lando wanted to kiss her. Wanted to pull her back into his arms and refuse to let go. Wanted to stay until she believed him, until she trusted him, until she let him love her the way she deserved.
But he couldn't. Not when she was looking at him like this, not when every line of her body was screaming for space.
So he walked out the door.
Y/N closed it behind him immediately. He heard the lock click into place.
The sound of the lock was final. Definitive. And as soon as it clicked into place, she slid down the door until she was sitting on the floor, her arms wrapped around her knees, fresh tears already falling. She'd done the right thing. She'd protected herself. So why did it feel like she'd just made the worst mistake of her life?
Lando stood in the hallway for a long moment, staring at her closed door, his chest hollow, his arms empty, his whole body aching for her. He could still smell her shampoo on his t-shirt, could still feel the ghost of her weight in his arms, could still remember exactly how it felt to hold her.
He'd had her. For those precious minutes, he'd held her in his arms, had felt her cry against him, had been allowed into her pain. They'd been so close to something real, something lasting.
And then she'd kicked him out like none of it mattered.
But it did matter. He knew it mattered. He'd seen it in her eyes, felt it in the way she'd held onto him, heard it in those broken sobs. She was just too scared to believe it, too convinced by years of conditioning that she didn't deserve it.
He couldn't give up. Not on her. Not on them. Even if it took forever, even if she kept pushing him away, even if it meant fighting through contract obligations and public scrutiny and her own fear—he wouldn't give up.
Lando pulled out his phone as he walked down the stairs, his vision blurry with fresh tears. He had work to do—photos to take down, a contract to terminate, a life to reorganize around the one truth he knew for certain.
Y/N was his soulmate. Not just because of marks on their skin, but because holding her felt like coming home. Because her pain was his pain. Because loving her felt as natural as breathing.
And he wasn't giving up on her.
Not now. Not ever. Even if it took him the rest of his life, he would prove to her that she was worth everything. That she deserved to be loved without conditions or limitations. That she was extraordinary, not in spite of who she was, but because of it.
–
Y/N didn't move from where she'd slid down against the door. She stayed there on the floor, knees pulled to her chest, arms wrapped tight around herself like she could physically hold the pieces together. The tears came in waves—violent at first, then gradually subsiding into something quieter, more exhausted. Her body felt wrung out, hollowed, like something essential had been extracted and she was just the empty shell left behind.
Eventually, she dragged herself to the couch. She didn't have the energy for anything else—not for changing out of her nightdress, not for eating, not for processing what had just happened. She curled onto her side, pulling a throw blanket over herself, and let the tears continue to fall silently into the cushions.
The morning had felt endless. The phone call with her mother. Lando showing up. Breaking down in his arms—twice. Feeling safe and terrified and furious all at once. And then sending him away because she had to, because she couldn't survive hoping for something that would inevitably fall apart.
Her eyes were so heavy. Swollen from crying, burning from the tears, exhausted from the emotional devastation of the past few hours. She didn't mean to fall asleep. Didn't want to sleep. But her body had other plans, dragging her down into unconsciousness whether she liked it or not.
It was just past noon when sleep finally claimed her.
—
The dream started differently this time.
Y/N stood in a living room she didn't recognize but somehow knew intimately. Warm afternoon light streamed through large windows. There were photos on the walls—her and Lando, smiling, together. Happy in a way that seemed impossible.
Their daughter was there again. The same girl from before, maybe five years old, with Lando's eyes and Y/N's features. She was sitting at a coffee table, crayons scattered everywhere, completely absorbed in her drawing.
Y/N felt herself drawn forward, compelled to look. To see.
"What are you drawing, sweetheart?" The words left her mouth before she'd consciously decided to speak.
The girl looked up, her face lighting up with pure, uncomplicated joy. "I made something for you, Mummy!" She held up the paper proudly.
It was a child's drawing—a house with a triangle roof and a square body, the kind every child draws. But it was the three stick figures that made Y/N's breath catch. Three stick figures holding hands in front of the house. One tall with dark scribbled hair, one smaller with long hair, and one tiny figure between them.
"That's you, me, and Daddy," the girl said proudly, pointing to each figure in turn. "See? We're all holding hands. We're a family."
Y/N stared at the drawing, something painful twisting in her chest. The stick figures were holding hands. Connected. Together. Except—
"Why am I standing so far away?" Y/N heard herself ask, her voice small and confused.
She looked closer. The girl was right—they were holding hands. But Y/N's figure was drawn slightly apart from the other two. Not by much, but enough to notice. A gap. A distance. The child had drawn the hands connected, but the body was pulled back, separated.
The girl's bright expression faltered. Her little face scrunched up, confused and sad in the way only children could be—complete, unfiltered emotion. "Because you keep walking away," she said, and her voice was so matter-of-fact, so honest, it cut deeper than any accusation could have. "Every time Daddy tries to hold your hand, you let go and walk away."
"I don't mean to—" Y/N started, but her throat was closing up.
"Can you stop, please?" The girl's eyes—Lando's eyes—were pleading now, filling with tears that made Y/N's chest crack open. "I want you to stay. Daddy wants you to stay. We drew you right here, between us, but you keep leaving. Why do you keep leaving?"
Y/N dropped to her knees in front of her daughter, tears streaming down her face. "Baby, I—"
"I don't want you to be far away anymore," the girl whispered, and a tear rolled down her cheek. "I want you close. Right here." She pointed to the middle stick figure again. "With us. Please don't walk away again, Mummy. Please."
Y/N reached out to touch her daughter's face, to wipe away that tear, to pull her close and promise she'd never leave—
But her hand passed through the air. The room was dissolving. The little girl was fading, her voice echoing as everything crumbled: "Please don't go... please don't go... please..."
—
Y/N jolted awake with a sharp gasp, her heart hammering against her ribs. For a disorienting moment, she didn't know where she was. The dream clung to her like spiderweb—sticky, invasive, impossible to shake off.
Her face was wet. She was crying again, or still, or maybe she'd been crying in her sleep. The apartment felt suffocating—air heavy and still, pressing down on her chest like a physical weight. Outside, the afternoon sun was bright, indifferent to her pain.
"Why now?" Y/N whispered to the empty room, her voice cracked and hoarse. "Why are you showing me this now?"
But she knew why. She'd sent Lando away. Again. She'd felt safe in his arms, had let herself break in front of him, had experienced something that felt dangerously close to home—and then she'd pushed him out the door because she was terrified.
You keep walking away.
Her daughter's voice echoed in her head, accusatory and heartbroken.
Y/N curled into a tighter ball on the couch, arms wrapped around herself, trying to hold together. But she couldn't stay still. The dream was suffocating her, the walls of her apartment closing in. She threw off the blanket and stood, her legs unsteady, and started pacing.
Barefoot across the hardwood. Living room to kitchen. Kitchen to bedroom. Bedroom to living room. Every room felt hollow, empty of meaning, like a stage set for a life she wasn't actually living. She'd built this space to be her sanctuary, her escape, her safe place. But right now it felt like a tomb.
Her phone sat facedown on the windowsill where she'd abandoned it after the call with her mum. She'd been too drained to even look at it after Lando left, too emotionally devastated to face whatever messages might be waiting. But now, hours later, the pull was irresistible.
Her fingers trembled as she reached for it. 2:17 PM. She'd been asleep for over two hours.
There was only one message. One from Pietra, timestamped just twenty minutes ago. And none from Lando. She felt disappointed in a way, but she knew he was giving her space, which was what she needed, what she wanted.
Pietra: Hey babe, I know this morning was rough. Want to meet up for coffee? Just us. We can talk, or not talk, whatever you need. Just let me know. I'm here. xx
Y/N stared at the message, her vision blurring with fresh tears. Pietra. Sweet, perceptive Pietra who always seemed to know when Y/N needed her. Who'd probably heard about the photos by now, who'd probably seen them and put together what that phone call with Y/N's mother must have been like.
Her fingers hovered over the screen, trembling. Part of her wanted to decline, wanted to curl back up on the couch and disappear from the world entirely. But another part—the part that had just dreamed of a daughter begging her to stop walking away—needed connection. Needed to be around someone who cared without conditions, who wouldn't judge, who might help her make sense of the chaos in her head.
Y/N: Yes. Please. Where?
The response came almost immediately.
Pietra: That little café near yours? The one with the good pastries? I can be there in 30 minutes.
Y/N: I'll be there.
Y/N set the phone down and looked at herself in the reflection of the dark TV screen. She looked destroyed—eyes swollen and red, face blotchy, hair a mess from sleeping. She needed to pull herself together. Needed to shower, to change, to make herself presentable enough to leave the apartment.
But first, she needed a moment. Just one more moment to feel the weight of that dream, to let herself acknowledge what it meant.
Can you stop, please?
Her daughter's voice. Pleading. Desperate.
And Y/N didn't have an answer. Because she didn't know if she could stop. Didn't know if she was strong enough to stay, to risk the devastation that would come when it all fell apart.
—
She needed to pull herself together. Needed to look like a functioning human being before meeting Pietra, who had an uncanny ability to see through every carefully constructed facade Y/N had ever attempted.
The shower helped, though the hot water made her already-puffy eyes worse. Y/N went through the motions mechanically—washing her hair, conditioning, going through her skincare routine with the kind of deliberate precision that came from years of using repetitive tasks to calm her racing mind. Each step was familiar, grounding, a way to build herself back into someone recognizable.
By the time she was dressed—light-wash jeans, a simple white cotton t-shirt, a thin sage-green cardigan left open, her comfortable leather sandals—she looked almost normal. The makeup took longer. Concealer to hide the evidence of tears, a bit more than usual under her eyes where the skin was still puffy. Mascara to make her eyes look less small and swollen. A touch of blush to combat the paleness that came from emotional exhaustion.
She studied her reflection critically. Not perfect, but acceptable. Someone having a normal Saturday afternoon, not someone who'd spent the morning crying in Lando Norris's arms before sending him away, then sobbing herself to sleep only to be haunted by dreams of a daughter who didn't exist yet.
Can you stop, please?
Y/N squeezed her eyes shut against the memory of that small, pleading voice. It was just a dream. Just her subconscious processing stress and fear and the impossible situation she'd found herself in. Nothing more.
She grabbed her keys and phone, deliberately leaving the newest bouquet of flowers in her peripheral vision as she headed for the door. A reminder of why she needed to stay guarded, why hope was dangerous, why letting herself believe in Lando's apparent change of heart would only lead to more devastation.
The café was only a ten-minute walk from her apartment, a small independent place that Pietra had discovered months ago and declared their official meeting spot. It had good coffee, better pastries, and enough ambient noise that private conversations could be had without fear of being overheard by curious neighbors or colleagues.
Pietra was already there when Y/N arrived, settled into their usual corner table with two cups already waiting. She looked up as Y/N approached, and her expression immediately shifted from casual friendliness to sharp concern.
"Jesus, Y/N," Pietra said as Y/N slid into the seat across from her. "You look—I mean, no offense, but you look like you've been crying for hours."
Y/N felt her carefully constructed composure crack slightly. Of course Pietra would notice. Of course her friend would see right through the makeup and the normal clothes and the attempt at functioning like everything was fine.
"I'm fine," Y/N said automatically, reaching for the coffee Pietra had ordered for her. "Just a rough morning."
"A rough morning," Pietra repeated flatly, her tone making it clear she didn't believe that for a second. "Y/N, your eyes are so puffy I can barely see your actual eye color. That's not a 'rough morning,' that's a complete breakdown."
Y/N took a sip of her coffee, buying herself a moment to formulate a response that would satisfy Pietra's concern without revealing anything too damaging. The problem was, she didn't know where to start. With Lando showing up at her door? With the phone call from her mother? With the dream that had felt more real than reality itself?
She couldn't tell Pietra about Lando being her soulmate. The thought sent a fresh wave of panic through her chest. If she told Pietra, everything would change. Pietra would be excited—devastatingly, overwhelmingly excited because not many people found their soulmates so early in life. Pietra would finally have someone who understood, someone to share soulmate experiences with, someone who knew what it felt like to find your other half.
But she'd also be furious. Absolutely, incandescently furious at Lando for how he'd treated Y/N. Pietra knew enough about Lando's past cruelty—the dismissiveness, the coldness, the year of being treated like she was invisible. If Pietra found out he was Y/N's soulmate and had been treating her that way? She'd probably hunt him down and strangle him herself.
And that was exactly the problem. Because if Lando had wanted Pietra to know, he would have told Max. The two of them told each other everything—they were best friends, had been for years. If Lando had told Max about the soulmate connection, Pietra would have known within hours. She would have called Y/N immediately, demanding the whole truth, probably already planning how to fix everything.
The silence from Pietra meant Lando hadn't told Max. Which meant he wanted to keep it secret. And Y/N couldn't betray that, couldn't expose something he clearly wasn't ready to share, no matter how much she might want to confide in her friend.
"The photos," Y/N said finally, settling on the one piece of truth that wouldn't require too much explanation. "From last night. Someone photographed us leaving the restaurant, and they're everywhere online. Lando came over this morning to tell me he's working on getting them taken down."
It wasn't a lie, exactly. Just a careful selection of which truths to share.
Pietra's eyes widened. "Shit. I saw those. I was hoping you hadn't." She paused, studying Y/N's face with growing concern. "But that doesn't explain why you look like you've been sobbing for hours. What really happened?"
Y/N felt something in her chest tighten. This was the problem with having friends who actually cared—they didn't accept surface explanations when something was clearly wrong.
"My mother called," she admitted quietly, the words tasting like ash in her mouth. "After she saw the photos. She had... opinions about them. About me being photographed with someone like Lando."
Pietra's expression darkened immediately. Y/N had told her friend enough about her family over the course of their friendship that Pietra understood, at least in broad strokes, what phone calls with Y/N's mother usually entailed.
"What did she say?"
Y/N shook her head, not trusting herself to repeat any of it without starting to cry again. "The usual. That I was embarrassing myself, that I don't belong in that world, that I should be grateful if someone like Lando gives me any attention at all because men at his level don't usually look twice at girls like me."
The summary was sanitized, leaving out the worst of her mother's cruelty, but even the cleaned-up version made Pietra's face flush with anger.
"I want to hunt her down and—" Pietra stopped herself, visibly forcing herself to calm down. "Sorry. I know she's your mother, but Christ, Y/N. The way she talks to you is so beyond fucked up."
"I know." Y/N's voice was barely above a whisper. "I know it's not normal. I know it's not okay. But knowing that doesn't make it hurt any less when she says it."
Pietra reached across the table and grabbed Y/N's hand, squeezing tightly. The simple gesture of comfort made Y/N's eyes burn with fresh tears she refused to shed.
"And Lando was there?" Pietra asked carefully. "When your mother called?"
Y/N nodded, not trusting her voice. She could still see the expression on his face as he'd watched her take that call, the horror and rage and helplessness as he'd witnessed her mother systematically destroy her with words that sounded almost loving if you didn't listen to the content.
Pietra was quiet for a moment, clearly processing this information. Something was happening here, something bigger than Y/N was telling her. She'd noticed the shift in dynamics between Y/N and Lando over the past few weeks—the way Lando asked about Y/N constantly, the way Y/N's entire body seemed to tense whenever his name was mentioned. It didn't make sense, especially given how Lando had treated Y/N for over a year. Cold, dismissive, sometimes outright cruel. Pietra had watched it happen, had felt helpless to intervene because Y/N had always insisted she was fine, that it didn't bother her.
But something had changed. Pietra just couldn't figure out what, or when, or why.
"Did he..." Pietra hesitated, clearly trying to figure out how to phrase her question. "How did he react?"
"He held me," Y/N said, and then immediately regretted the admission because she could see Pietra's entire expression shift into something that looked dangerously like hope and excitement.
"He held you," Pietra repeated, her voice taking on a different quality. "Like... held you held you? Or just a friendly comfort thing?"
Y/N closed her eyes, remembering the feeling of his arms around her, the way she'd completely fallen apart against his chest, the way he'd cried with her while whispering reassurances she desperately wanted to believe.
"He held me while I cried," she admitted, knowing there was no point in trying to downplay it when Pietra was looking at her with such intense focus. "For... a while. And then I asked him to leave."
"You asked him to—" Pietra looked genuinely baffled. "Y/N, why? If he was there comforting you, if he was being supportive, why would you send him away?"
Because he told me he loved me and I can't believe him, Y/N thought desperately. Because even when he holds me and makes me feel safe, I can't trust that it's real and not just an obligation to a soulmate mark he never wanted. Because if I let myself hope and I'm wrong, it will destroy what's left of me.
But she couldn't say any of that. Couldn't explain the soulmate connection without breaking Lando's apparent desire for secrecy. And more than that—she couldn't bear the thought of telling Pietra everything only to have Lando realize later that he didn't actually want her. The image of living the rest of her life with Pietra's pity was almost as unbearable as the rejection itself. She hated pity, had spent her entire life refusing to be an object of sympathy. The thought of seeing that look in Pietra's eyes every time they met, knowing her friend felt sorry for her because even her soulmate didn't want her—it was intolerable.
And then there was the other fear, the one that made her stomach twist with guilt. If Pietra knew the truth, she'd pressure Lando. Pietra understood how important soulmates were, how sacred that connection was supposed to be. She'd probably corner Lando and demand he treat Y/N better, and then Y/N would never know if his actions were genuine or just him responding to social pressure. She'd never know if he wanted her or if he just felt obligated by cosmic destiny and his best friend's girlfriend.
The question hung between them, and Y/N felt the weight of everything she couldn't say pressing down on her chest.
"Because I can't do this, Pietra," Y/N said instead, her voice cracking slightly. "I can't let myself need someone who's made it very clear in the past that I'm not someone worth wanting. Even if he's being nice now, even if he seems like he cares, I can't forget how he treated me before."
Pietra was quiet for a long moment, her thumb rubbing absently over Y/N's knuckles where their hands were still clasped across the table. There was a conflict playing across her face—she clearly wanted to say something but was holding back.
"Y/N," Pietra said carefully, choosing her words with obvious deliberation. "I know Lando was... difficult with you. For a long time. I watched it happen and I should have said something, should have called him out on it more forcefully. The way he treated you—the coldness, the dismissiveness, sometimes the outright rudeness—it wasn't okay. And I'm sorry I didn't do more to stop it."
Y/N felt her throat tighten. Hearing Pietra acknowledge what she'd endured, having someone validate that it hadn't been in her imagination, that Lando really had been cruel—it made something crack in her chest.
"But something's changed," Pietra continued, her eyes searching Y/N's face. "I don't know what or when, but something has definitely changed. Max has noticed it too. Lando's different now, especially when it comes to you. The questions he asks about you, the way he talks about you when you're not around—it's not the same person who was cold to you for over a year."
"People don't just change like that," Y/N said, but her voice lacked conviction.
"Sometimes they do," Pietra said gently. "Sometimes something happens that makes them see everything differently. I'm not saying you should forget how he treated you before—God knows I haven't forgotten, and I'm still angry at him for it. But Y/N, what if he's genuinely trying to make amends? What if whatever changed for him is real?"
What if the only reason he changed is because he found out about the marks? The question burned in Y/N's mind but couldn't be voiced. What if he only wants me because the universe told him he should, not because he actually chose me?
"Has something happened between you two?" Pietra asked carefully, leaning forward slightly. "Something you're not telling me? Because the way you're talking about him right now... it doesn't sound like you're just casual acquaintances who happen to be in the same friend group. It sounds like something deeper. Something that matters."
Y/N felt panic spike in her chest. She'd revealed too much, let too much emotion show through in her words. Pietra was too perceptive, too good at reading between the lines.
Pietra was watching her friend with growing concern and confusion. Something significant had happened between Y/N and Lando, something that had shifted the entire dynamic between them. But what? When? Why was Y/N so clearly conflicted about someone who had treated her so poorly for so long? And more importantly, why was Y/N protecting him by not explaining what was really going on?
"It's complicated," Y/N said, which was perhaps the biggest understatement of her life.
"Complicated how?"
"I can't—" Y/N pulled her hand back, wrapping both hands around her coffee cup like it could anchor her. "Pietra, I can't talk about it. Not yet. Maybe not ever. It's just... it's too much, and I'm barely holding myself together as it is."
The words hurt to say because Pietra was one of her closest friends, and keeping this secret felt like a betrayal of their friendship. But how could she explain that she was protecting Lando's privacy, protecting herself from pity, and protecting him from pressure all at the same time? How could she make Pietra understand that telling the truth would create more problems than it solved?
Pietra studied her for a long moment, her expression cycling through concern, frustration, and something that looked like understanding.
"Okay," she said finally. "I won't push. But Y/N, whatever's going on, whatever happened between you two... you know you can tell me, right? When you're ready? I'm not going to judge you, and I'm not going to make it weird or—"
"I know," Y/N interrupted, feeling guilty for the secrets she was keeping from one of her best friends. "I know you wouldn't. It's just... I need to figure some things out myself first. Before I can talk about it with anyone else."
Before I know if Lando actually wants me or just feels obligated to want me. Before I know if telling you would help or just make everything infinitely worse.
"Fair enough." Pietra picked up her own coffee, taking a sip before adding, "But for what it's worth? Lando's been different lately. Max has noticed it too. He's more serious, more focused, like something shifted for him. And he asks about you. A lot."
Y/N's heart stuttered at that information, even though she'd already known from their previous conversations that Lando had been gathering intelligence about her preferences. But hearing it confirmed again, hearing that it was noticeable enough that even Max had picked up on the change in Lando's behavior...
"What kind of things does he ask about?" The question slipped out before Y/N could stop it.
Pietra's expression softened into something that looked almost like pity mixed with hope. "Everything. Your favorite foods, your work schedule, what you do on weekends. Whether you're seeing anyone. If you've mentioned him. He's... Max says he's never seen Lando this invested in someone before. Not even with Olivia."
The name made Y/N flinch involuntarily. Olivia. The ex-girlfriend who'd been perfect and beautiful and everything Y/N wasn't.
And now Pietra was saying he was more invested in Y/N than he'd been in Olivia? The thought should have been comforting, but instead it just made Y/N more suspicious. More convinced that his interest was driven by obligation rather than genuine feeling.
"What about Matilde?" Y/N asked, because she needed to remind herself—and Pietra—that Lando was still publicly involved with someone else, regardless of whatever attention he was paying to Y/N in private.
"What about her?" Pietra's tone suggested she didn't think Matilde was particularly relevant to whatever was happening.
"He's still with her. Still doing appearances, still letting the world think they're together. So whatever questions he's asking about me, whatever interest he's showing... it doesn't really matter, does it? He's not actually available."
Pietra looked like she wanted to argue, opened her mouth as if to say something, then seemed to think better of it. "Actually," she said slowly, setting down her coffee cup, "I already told you this before, remember? About Lando working on ending the contract early?"
Y/N froze, the words hitting her with sudden clarity. Pietra had mentioned it. In one of their previous conversations, before everything had become so overwhelming. She'd been so caught up in her own pain and fear that the information hadn't really registered at the time.
"He's still doing it," Pietra continued gently. "Max says he's been in constant meetings with his lawyers. It's going to cost him an absolute fortune in penalties, but he's still determined. He hasn't stopped, Y/N. Even with everything that's happened between you two, he's still fighting to get out of that contract."
The reminder hit Y/N like a physical blow. He was actually taking steps to end his fake relationship. Had been taking those steps even before their conversation this morning, before he'd held her while she cried, before she'd kicked him out. One of the main things she'd said he'd need to do if he was serious about them. He was doing it.
The knowledge should have filled her with hope, but instead it just made the fear more acute. What if he was doing all of this—ending the contract, sending the gifts, showing genuine interest—and then decided she wasn't worth it after all? What if he went through all that trouble and expense only to realize that his soulmate was exactly what he'd thought for that first year: broken, damaged, not worth the effort?
"That doesn't change the past," Y/N said quietly, her hands wrapping tighter around her coffee cup. "It doesn't change how he treated me for over a year. How he made me feel invisible, or worse than invisible. Like I was... less than nothing."
Pietra squeezed Y/N's hand again, her eyes bright with sympathy and something that looked like anger on Y/N's behalf. "I know. I watched it happen and it killed me. The way he'd light up the room for everyone except you. The way he'd go out of his way to avoid talking to you. There were times I wanted to shake him and demand to know what his problem was, why he was being so unnecessarily cruel to someone who'd never done anything to him."
The validation made Y/N's eyes burn with tears. "You noticed?"
"Of course I noticed," Pietra said fiercely. "Everyone noticed. Max talked to him about it a few times, tried to get him to explain why he treated you so differently. Lando always brushed it off, said you rubbed him the wrong way or that you two just didn't click. But it was more than that. It was deliberate. And it hurt to watch, especially knowing how much it must have hurt you."
Y/N felt something break open in her chest. She'd thought she'd hidden it so well, had convinced herself that no one noticed how much Lando's coldness affected her. But Pietra had seen it. Had understood. Had even tried to intervene.
"Why didn't you say anything?" Y/N asked, her voice small. "To me, I mean. Why didn't you tell me you'd noticed?"
"Because you never wanted to talk about it," Pietra said gently. "Every time I tried to bring up Lando's behavior, you changed the subject or insisted it didn't bother you. I figured you'd talk to me when you were ready. I just... I'm sorry I didn't push harder. I should have called him out more forcefully, should have made it clear that treating you like that wasn't acceptable."
"It's not your responsibility to manage his behavior," Y/N said, but part of her was grateful for Pietra's anger on her behalf, for having someone who saw the hurt even when she tried to hide it.
"Maybe not," Pietra agreed. "But you're my friend, and I should have done more to protect you. That's what hurts me now—knowing you were dealing with that for over a year and I didn't do enough to stop it."
The words hung between them, heavy with shared history and unspoken pain. Y/N took a shaky breath, trying to steady herself before she started crying again.
"Just... don't completely close yourself off to possibilities, okay?" Pietra said after a moment. "Sometimes people surprise us. Sometimes they're actually capable of change. And yes, Lando treated you horribly for over a year. That's real, and it matters, and you have every right to be wary. But what if he's genuinely trying to make it right? What if whatever changed for him is real and lasting?"
Y/N nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Because that was exactly what terrified her—the possibility that Lando had changed, that his feelings were genuine, that she might actually be able to have what she'd been dreaming about for over a year. The hope felt more dangerous than the despair ever had, because hope meant vulnerability, and vulnerability meant the possibility of devastation so complete she might never recover.
They sat in comfortable silence for a while, both sipping their coffee, the ambient noise of the café filling the space between them. Y/N felt some of the tension in her shoulders ease slightly. This was good. This was normal. Just two friends having coffee on a Saturday afternoon, nothing dramatic or overwhelming or emotionally devastating about it.
"Did you at least get some good sleep last night?" Pietra asked eventually. "After everything with dinner and your mother and Lando?"
Y/N thought about the dream—the little girl with Lando's eyes and her features, the kitchen that had felt like home, the devastating conversation about why Mummy and Daddy didn't talk anymore. The way she'd woken up reaching for something that wasn't there, tears already streaming down her face.
"Not really," she said quietly. "I had... strange dreams."
"Strange how?"
Y/N shook her head. She couldn't talk about the dream, couldn't explain how real it had felt or how completely it had shattered her when that little girl had asked her to stop walking away. Couldn't voice the terrible fear that the dream was some kind of prophecy—that even if she and Lando managed to build something together, even if they had a child, they'd still end up broken and miserable because she couldn't trust his love enough to let herself be happy.
"Just weird stress dreams. My brain processing everything, I guess."
Pietra accepted that explanation with a nod, though Y/N could see her friend filing away the information for later consideration. Pietra had that look on her face—the one that said she knew Y/N wasn't telling her everything, but she was going to respect her privacy even though it clearly frustrated her.
They talked about safer topics after that—work gossip, weekend plans, a new restaurant Pietra wanted to try. Normal conversation that helped Y/N feel slightly more human, slightly less like she was drowning in emotions she couldn't control.
But underneath the surface normalcy, Pietra's mind was racing. Something had happened between Y/N and Lando, something significant enough to make Y/N look like she'd been crying for hours, something important enough that she couldn't talk about it even with one of her closest friends. And Lando—Lando who'd been so cold to Y/N for over a year—was asking about her constantly, sending her things (Pietra had noticed the expensive handbag Y/N had been carrying lately, had recognized the Hermès Kelly), being different in ways that Max had noticed too.
What had changed? And more importantly, why was Y/N protecting him by keeping it secret?
As they eventually gathered their things to leave, as Pietra pulled Y/N into a tight hug on the street outside the café, she made a decision. She wouldn't push Y/N for information she clearly wasn't ready to share. But she would be paying very close attention to both of them from now on. Would be watching for signs of whatever was happening between them, ready to intervene if Lando hurt Y/N again.
"Take care of yourself," Pietra murmured against her hair. "And Y/N? Whatever's happening with Lando, whatever you decide to do about it... just make sure you're choosing what you actually want, not what you think you deserve. Those are two very different things."
The words settled into Y/N's chest like stones. What she wanted and what she thought she deserved. Pietra made it sound so simple, like those were just two options she could choose between with clear-eyed rationality.
But what if what she wanted was exactly what she was most afraid to reach for? What if what she deserved was protection from the kind of hope that could destroy her completely when it inevitably crumbled? What if the two things were so tangled up with each other that she couldn't separate them anymore?
The words followed Y/N all the way home, echoing in her mind as she took the lift to her apartment, as she opened the door to find the peonies still beautiful on her kitchen counter, as she collapsed onto her couch and stared at the ceiling.
She thought about Pietra's face when she'd acknowledged Lando's past cruelty, the anger in her friend's voice when she'd said everyone had noticed. At least Y/N hadn't been crazy, hadn't been imagining the coldness or the deliberate distance. Even Pietra had seen it, had recognized it for what it was—unnecessary cruelty that had left wounds still raw even now.
And yet Pietra thought he'd changed. Believed whatever shift had occurred in Lando was real enough to give him another chance. The vote of confidence from someone who'd witnessed the worst of his behavior should have meant something, should have made Y/N feel more secure in considering the possibility of trusting him.
Instead, it just made her more terrified. Because if Pietra was wrong, if this was all just obligation dressed up as feeling, then Y/N would have let herself hope for nothing. Would have exposed herself to exactly the kind of devastation she'd spent her entire life learning to protect herself from.
Y/N closed her eyes and saw that little girl again, heard her voice pleading: Can you stop, please? I just want you both to be happy again.
"It was just a dream," she whispered to her empty apartment, trying to convince herself. "Just a dream."
But it had felt like so much more than that. It had felt like a warning, like her subconscious showing her exactly what would happen if she let herself hope and then couldn't sustain that hope through all the challenges that would inevitably come.
Because that was the real fear, wasn't it? Not just that Lando didn't genuinely want her, but that even if he did, even if his feelings were real and lasting, she was too broken to accept them. Too damaged by her childhood and by his initial cruelty to ever fully trust in his love. Too convinced of her own unworthiness to believe that anyone—even her soulmate—could choose her and mean it.
The dream had shown her a future where they had everything—a home, a child, a life together. And even with all of that, they'd been miserable because she couldn't stop walking away, couldn't stop protecting herself, couldn't stop expecting abandonment long enough to actually be happy.
Maybe that was the real tragedy. Not that Lando might not want her, but that even if he did, she was too broken to receive his love in any meaningful way.
You're fundamentally, irreparably broken.
His words from their fight months ago echoed in her memory, mixing with her mother's voice from this morning, creating a chorus of condemnation that felt impossible to escape.
Maybe they were all right. Maybe she really was too damaged to be anyone's soulmate, even when the universe itself had designated her as such.
Y/N pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, making herself as small as possible on her expensive couch in her expensive apartment—all the material comfort in the world unable to fill the void where her sense of self-worth should have been.
The peonies on her kitchen counter caught her eye, their pale pink petals still beautiful despite everything. A gift from someone who claimed to see her, to want her, to love her.
But how could she believe it when she'd spent over a year being invisible to him? When she still didn't know if his feelings were genuine or just cosmic obligation? When the thought of trusting him felt like stepping off a cliff without knowing if there was ground below or just endless falling?
Pietra's words echoed in her mind: Just make sure you're choosing what you actually want, not what you think you deserve.
But what if she'd lost the ability to tell the difference? What if fear had so thoroughly infiltrated her decision-making that she couldn't separate genuine self-protection from self-sabotage anymore?
Y/N didn't have answers to any of these questions. All she knew was that she was exhausted—emotionally, physically, spiritually exhausted from carrying the weight of this secret, from trying to protect everyone including herself, from being caught between hope and terror with no clear path forward.
She closed her eyes and wished, desperately, that the universe had just left her alone. That she'd never seen that mark on Lando's hip, never known they were soulmates, never had to carry this impossible knowledge while watching him transform from her cruelest critic to her most devoted pursuer.
Ignorance might not have been bliss, but at least it would have been simpler than this.
–
The drive from London to Bristol should have taken just three hours. Lando made it in two and a half hours, his McLaren eating up the M4 motorway with the kind of aggressive speed that would have gotten him pulled over if any traffic police had been paying attention. But it was Saturday afternoon, and luck—or perhaps the universe taking pity on him—kept his route clear.
He didn't remember making the conscious decision to go to his parents' house. One moment he'd been standing in the hallway outside Y/N's apartment, staring at her closed door and trying to process what he'd just witnessed. The next, he was in his car, pointing it west toward Bristol, his hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles had gone white.
The scene in Y/N's apartment played on repeat in his mind like a horror film he couldn't turn off. The way she'd transformed when her mother called—her voice becoming bright and cheerful while her face remained completely blank. The careful military posture, the white-knuckled grip on the counter, the tears that had streamed down her face while her voice never wavered once.
He'd watched her cry for fifteen minutes without a single hitch in her breathing, without a single crack in her tone. She'd sobbed silently while speaking to her mother in that horrible, false-cheerful voice, and the disconnect between the two had been so viscerally wrong that Lando had felt physically ill witnessing it.
Practice, she'd said when he'd asked how she did it. Lots and lots of practice.
The words made his stomach turn even now, hours later. What kind of childhood did you have to endure to perfect the art of crying in complete silence? What kind of parents trained their daughter to hide every emotional response, to perform happiness while dying inside?
And then—God, and then—the realization that had hit him like a sledgehammer to the chest.
He'd done the same thing to her.
For so long, he'd been systematically destroying Y/N's sense of self-worth with the same kind of calculated cruelty her mother had displayed on that phone call. Different words, different methods, but the same result: making her feel fundamentally unworthy of love or basic human kindness.
You're fundamentally, irreparably broken.
His own words from their fight echoed in his head, and he felt bile rise in his throat. He'd called her broken. Had looked at his soulmate—the person the universe had literally designed for him—and told her she was incapable of human connection. Had used her deepest insecurities as weapons against her, just like her parents had been doing her entire life.
He was no better than them. Maybe he was worse, because at least her parents had the excuse of their own trauma, their own damaged childhoods. What was his excuse? That he'd been scared? That he'd been running from feelings he didn't understand?
Lando pulled into his parents' driveway just after 3 PM, his body running on pure adrenaline. He'd barely slept, hadn't eaten, had spent the entire morning watching Y/N fall apart and then holding her while they both cried.
His mother must have heard the car, because she opened the front door before he'd even made it halfway up the path. Cisca Norris took one look at her son's face—pale, exhausted, eyes red-rimmed from crying—and her expression immediately shifted from surprise to concern.
"Lando? Sweetheart, what's wrong? Why didn't you call? We would have—"
"Mum," Lando said, and his voice cracked on the word. "Mum, I fucked up. I fucked up so badly and I don't know how to fix it."
Cisca didn't ask any more questions. She just pulled him into the house, wrapped her arms around him, and held him while he struggled not to break down completely on her doorstep. Over her shoulder, Lando could see his father Adam emerging from the living room, his face creasing with worry at the sight of his son's obvious distress.
"What happened?" Adam asked, his voice carrying that particular tone of parental concern that could make even a twenty-five-year-old racing driver feel like a child again.
"I need..." Lando pulled away from his mother, running his hands through his hair in a gesture that made it stand up even more than it already was. "I need to talk to you both. About... about everything. About her."
Cisca and Adam exchanged glances, some unspoken communication passing between them that came from decades of marriage. Cisca took Lando's arm and gently guided him toward the living room, settling him onto the familiar sofa where he'd spent countless hours throughout his childhood.
"I'll make tea," she said, which was her solution to every crisis, big or small.
"I don't want tea," Lando said, but she was already moving toward the kitchen.
"You're getting tea anyway," she called back. "And you're going to sit there and collect yourself before you tell us what's got you looking like death warmed over."
Adam settled into his usual armchair, studying his son with the kind of careful attention that suggested he was cataloging every detail—the shadows under Lando's eyes, the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands couldn't seem to stay still.
"This is about the girl you mentioned on the phone," Adam said quietly. Not a question, but a statement. "Your soulmate."
Lando nodded, his throat too tight to speak. Even now, even in his parents' living room surrounded by the comfort of home, saying the words out loud felt impossible. How could he explain what had happened this morning? How could he make them understand the depth of his failure?
Cisca returned with tea faster than should have been physically possible, which meant she'd probably just reheated what was already in the kettle. She pressed a mug into Lando's hands and settled onto the sofa beside him, close enough that their shoulders touched—a small gesture of maternal support that made Lando's eyes burn with fresh tears.
"Start from the beginning," she said gently. "Tell us everything."
So he did.
The words came haltingly at first, then faster, then in a rush that felt like a dam breaking. He told them about finding Y/N at Max and Pietra's gathering, about seeing her collapse and discovering the mark that matched his own. He told them about the car ride, about her finally admitting that she'd known for over a year that they were soulmates.
"A year," Cisca breathed, her hand coming up to cover her mouth. "She's known for more than a year that you were her soulmate and never said anything?"
"Because I made it clear I didn't want her," Lando said, and the words tasted like ash in his mouth. "Because I spent that time treating her like she was nothing."
He saw his parents exchange another look, this one darker, more concerned. But they didn't interrupt, just let him continue.
He told them about going to her apartment, about the conversation where he'd finally admitted his feelings. About the gifts he'd been sending, the text messages, the desperate attempts to prove that what he felt was real.
And then, voice breaking, he told them about this morning.
"There were photos," he said. "From dinner last night. Someone photographed us leaving the restaurant, and they're everywhere online. Her mother saw them and called."
"And?" Adam prompted gently when Lando fell silent.
"And I watched her take that call," Lando said, his hands tightening around the mug until his knuckles went white. "I watched her mother—" He stopped himself, the words dying in his throat.
He couldn't. He couldn't repeat what Y/N's mother had said. Couldn't expose the specific cruelties, the systematic destruction of her daughter's worth. Those were Y/N's private wounds, her personal pain, and even in his desperation to make his parents understand, he wouldn't betray her privacy like that.
If—when—Y/N finally agreed to meet his parents, he couldn't have her walking into their home knowing they'd heard every horrible thing her mother had said about her. Couldn't have her feeling like she was being pitied or judged or discussed like some kind of case study.
"I watched her mother destroy her for fifteen minutes," Lando said carefully, choosing his words with deliberate precision. "And Y/N just... she just stood there and took it. Her voice stayed bright and cheerful while tears streamed down her face. She never once let her voice break. Not once. She cried—God, she cried so hard—but her voice stayed perfectly steady the whole time. And when I asked her how she did it, she said 'practice.' Like it was the most normal thing in the world."
Cisca's hand flew to her mouth, her eyes filling with tears. Adam's face had gone pale, his jaw clenched tight with barely contained fury.
"Her mother said things designed to make Y/N feel like she didn't belong, like she should be grateful for any attention at all. But I won't repeat the specifics. That's... that's Y/N's story to tell, not mine." He looked between his parents, needing them to understand. "If she ever does meet you, I can't have her knowing you've heard every horrible thing her mother said about her. Her dignity, her privacy—those are things I can protect, even if I've failed to protect her heart."
Adam nodded slowly, understanding dawning in his eyes. "You're protecting her privacy."
"That shows you understand that she's a person first, not just your soulmate," Cisca said softly, though her eyes were still bright with unshed tears. "That her dignity matters regardless of whether she chooses you."
"That's abuse," Adam said flatly, even without knowing the full details. "What you've described—that's emotional abuse."
"I know," Lando whispered. "And the worst part is... the worst part is that I did the same thing to her."
The silence that followed was deafening. Lando could feel his parents staring at him, could sense the question they were both afraid to ask.
"What do you mean?" Cisca asked finally, her voice very quiet and very careful.
Lando set his mug down on the coffee table before he could drop it, his hands shaking too badly to hold it steady. This was it. This was where he had to confess everything, where he had to admit to his parents—who had raised him to be kind and respectful and decent—just how badly he'd failed to live up to those values.
"I need to tell you something," he said, his voice rough. "About how I treated her. Before I knew we were soulmates. Before I understood what she meant to me."
He took a shaky breath, forcing himself to meet his mother's eyes even though it felt like being flayed open.
"From the moment I met her, I was cruel to her. Not just cold or distant—actively cruel. I spoke to her with contempt. I dismissed everything she said. I made it clear through every interaction that I found her presence barely tolerable."
Cisca's face had gone very still, that particular kind of stillness that mothers get when they're trying very hard not to react before hearing the full story.
"I called her miserable," Lando continued, the words coming faster now, like poison he needed to expel. "I told her she was fundamentally broken. I said she sucked the joy out of every room she walked into. I told her she was incapable of human connection, that she was pathetic, that no one wanted her because there was something wrong with her at her core."
"Lando," Adam said, his voice carrying a warning, but Lando couldn't stop now. The confession was pouring out of him like blood from a wound.
"I questioned her ambition, her work ethic, her competence. I made her feel small and stupid and worthless. For months, every time we were in the same room, I made sure she knew I didn't want her there. That she was taking up space she hadn't earned."
His mother had gone completely pale, her hand pressed against her chest like she was trying to hold her heart in place. His father's face had darkened with an anger Lando had rarely seen directed at him.
"And the worst part," Lando said, his voice breaking completely now, "is that I did it on purpose. I wasn't just being thoughtless or careless. I knew exactly what I was doing. I saw how my words affected her, and I kept going. Kept finding new ways to hurt her, new insecurities to exploit."
"Why?" The word came from Cisca, barely above a whisper, and it carried more weight than a shout would have.
"Because I was scared," Lando admitted, tears streaming down his face now. "Because from the moment I met her, something about her terrified me. She made me feel things I didn't understand, and instead of dealing with those feelings like an adult, I tried to destroy her. Tried to make her so small and insignificant that I could convince myself she didn't matter."
The silence that followed was crushing. Lando watched his mother's face cycle through emotions—shock, disappointment, anger, grief. He watched his father's jaw work as he visibly struggled for words.
"You remind me," Cisca said finally, her voice shaking, "of every bully you ever came home crying about as a child. Every person who made you feel less than, who used their power to hurt you. You became exactly what you hated most."
The words hit Lando like physical blows, each one finding its mark with devastating accuracy. Because she was right. He'd become the bullies who'd tormented him in karting, the journalists who'd written cruel things about him, the social media trolls who found pleasure in tearing him down.
He'd become the thing he'd always feared being.
"I know," he whispered. "I know, and I don't know how to fix it. She won't even look at me without seeing someone who confirmed every horrible thing her parents ever taught her about herself. I'm just another person in a long line of people who made her feel worthless."
"Good God, Lando," Adam said, and his voice was rough with disappointment and anger. "This girl has been abused her entire life by her own parents, and your response was to pile on? To add your voice to the chorus telling her she was worthless?"
"I didn't know—"
"You didn't know about her parents," Adam cut him off, his voice sharp. "But you knew you were being cruel. You knew you were hurting her. You just said you did it on purpose."
"Adam," Cisca said quietly, but there was steel in her voice. "Let him finish."
Lando slumped forward, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. "She doesn't believe me," he said, his voice muffled. "I've told her I love her, I've sent her gifts, I've been trying to show her that my feelings are real. But she thinks it's all just obligation. That I only want her because we're soulmates, not because I actually chose her."
"Can you blame her?" Cisca asked, and her voice was gentler now but no less devastating. "You spent such a long time proving that you didn't choose her. That you actively rejected her. And now you expect her to believe that finding out about the soulmate connection magically changed everything?"
"It did change everything," Lando said desperately, looking up at his mother. "The moment I saw that mark, everything clicked into place. All the feelings I'd been running from, all the confusion about why I couldn't stop thinking about her—it all made sense."
"But from her perspective," Adam said slowly, "all she knows is that you treated her terribly until you discovered you were cosmically obligated to care about her. How is she supposed to trust that your feelings are genuine when they only appeared after you learned about the marks?"
The question hung in the air like an accusation, and Lando had no answer for it. Because they were right. From Y/N's perspective, his sudden change of heart looked like nothing more than acceptance of cosmic duty, not genuine feeling.
"I don't know what to do," Lando admitted, his voice breaking. "I've tried everything I can think of. I ended my PR relationship—or I'm in the process of ending it. I sent gifts to show I've been paying attention to her preferences. I've been texting her, trying to maintain connection without pressure. But nothing works. She just... she won't let me in."
"Because you haven't earned it," Cisca said bluntly. "Lando, you spent months systematically destroying this woman's self-worth. You don't undo that kind of damage with expensive gifts and text messages."
"Then how do I undo it?" Lando asked, desperation making his voice rise. "Tell me how to fix this, because I'm losing my mind. I can't eat, I can't sleep, I can't think about anything except how badly I've fucked this up."
His mother was quiet for a long moment, studying him with eyes that seemed to see straight through to his soul. When she finally spoke, her voice was measured, careful.
"You may not be able to fix it," she said, and the words hit Lando like a death sentence. "The damage you've done—the damage her parents have done—it's not something that can be erased with gestures or words. She needs therapy, probably. She needs time. She needs to rebuild the sense of self-worth that you and her family spent years destroying."
"But I love her," Lando said, and he hated how broken he sounded, how desperate. "She's my soulmate. I'm supposed to—"
"You're supposed to protect her," Adam interrupted, his voice hard. "You're supposed to cherish her, support her, make her feel valued and loved. Instead, you made her feel exactly the way her abusive parents made her feel. The soulmate connection doesn't excuse that. If anything, it makes it worse."
Lando felt something inside him crumble at his father's words. Because Adam was right. The soulmate bond should have made him treat Y/N better, should have triggered some instinctive need to protect and cherish her. Instead, he'd used his position to hurt her more effectively than almost anyone else could have.
"I watched her this morning," Lando said quietly, staring at his hands. "Watched her cry silently while her mother told her things designed to hurt her. And all I could think was that I'd said similar things to her. Maybe not in those exact words, but the message was the same: you're not good enough, you don't belong, there's something wrong with you."
He looked up at his parents, saw the disappointment written clearly on both their faces, and felt his heart break all over again.
"She can cry without making a single sound," he said, his voice rough with emotion. "She's perfected the art of suffering in silence because her parents taught her that showing pain only invites more pain. And when I held her this morning, when I felt her body shaking with sobs while she stayed completely quiet, I realized I'd helped train her to do that. I'd reinforced the lesson that her emotions were inconvenient, that her pain didn't matter, that she needed to hide who she really was to be acceptable."
Cisca's eyes were brimming with tears now, and even Adam's stern expression had softened into something that looked like grief.
"How do I come back from that?" Lando asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "How do I prove to her that I'm not just another person who's going to hurt her? That I actually see her and value her and want her for who she is, not because the universe told me I should?"
"I don't know if you can," Cisca said honestly, and the words felt like a knife to Lando's chest. "I hope you can, because the thought of you both spending your lives missing out on what you could have together breaks my heart. But Lando, you need to understand that this isn't about you anymore. It's not about your feelings or your guilt or your desperate need to fix things."
She reached out and took his hand, squeezing it tightly.
"This is about her healing," she continued. "About her learning to trust again, to value herself again, to believe that she deserves love without conditions. And that process might not include you. You might have damaged things beyond repair, and if that's the case, you're going to have to accept it."
"I can't accept that," Lando said immediately, shaking his head. "I can't just give up on her. On us."
"I'm not saying give up," Cisca clarified. "I'm saying you need to respect her process. You need to give her space and time and the freedom to heal without pressure from you. And if that healing leads her to decide she can't trust you, that she can't forgive what you did, then you need to respect that decision too."
"But she's my soulmate," Lando said, and he hated how petulant he sounded, like a child who'd been told he couldn't have something he wanted.
"She's a human being first," Adam said firmly. "A human being who's been abused and mistreated and taught that she's worthless. The soulmate connection doesn't erase that, and it doesn't mean she owes you forgiveness or a relationship or anything else."
The words settled over Lando like a heavy blanket, smothering and inescapable. His parents were right, and he knew they were right, but accepting it felt impossible when every cell in his body was screaming at him to fix this, to make Y/N understand, to prove that his feelings were real.
"I don't know how to just... wait," he admitted. "Every instinct I have is telling me to go to her, to keep trying, to make her see that I'm serious about this."
"Those instincts are wrong," Cisca said bluntly. "They're what got you into this mess in the first place. Your instincts told you to push her away, and you listened. Now your instincts are telling you to push for a relationship, and you need to resist. You give her the space she's asked for. You respect her boundaries. You work on yourself—figure out why you were capable of such cruelty, go to therapy if you need to, make sure you're never capable of treating anyone like that again."
"And then what?"
"And then you wait," Adam said. "You wait and you hope that she decides you're worth giving another chance. But Lando, you need to prepare yourself for the possibility that she won't. That the damage is too severe, the hurt too deep, the trust too broken."
The thought made Lando's chest tighten with panic. The idea of spending his life without Y/N, of never getting the chance to prove that his love was real, of watching her from afar while she built a life that didn't include him—it was unbearable.
"I can't lose her," he whispered, fresh tears spilling down his cheeks. "Mum, I can't. She's everything. She's always been everything, even when I was too stupid and scared to admit it."
Cisca pulled him into her arms, and Lando collapsed against her the way he hadn't since he was a child, sobbing into his mother's shoulder while she stroked his hair and murmured soft comfort.
"I know, sweetheart," she said softly. "I know it hurts. But you have to understand that what you did to her hurt too. Probably worse than what you're feeling now, because you at least have hope. You at least believe that your feelings are genuine. She doesn't have that certainty. All she has is the memory of over a year of cruelty from someone who's supposed to love her unconditionally."
The words were brutal in their honesty, but Lando needed to hear them. Needed to understand the full extent of what he'd done, the damage he'd caused, the mountain of broken trust he'd have to climb if he ever wanted a chance with Y/N.
"What if she never forgives me?" he asked, pulling back to look at his mother. "What if I've destroyed the one thing that was supposed to be perfect and permanent?"
"Then you live with that," Adam said, his voice gentler now but no less serious. "You live with the consequences of your actions, and you learn from them. You make sure you never treat anyone else the way you treated her. And you hope that someday, somehow, she finds the happiness she deserves—even if it's not with you."
The thought was like acid in Lando's veins, burning and corrosive and absolutely unbearable. But he knew his parents were right. Knew that he'd forfeited any claim to Y/N's love the moment he'd chosen cruelty over kindness, fear over courage, self-protection over compassion.
"I fucked up," he said quietly, the words feeling inadequate for the magnitude of his failure. "I fucked up so badly, and I don't know if I'll ever be able to fix it."
"Maybe you won't," Cisca said honestly. "But that doesn't mean you stop trying to be better. That doesn't mean you stop respecting her needs and her boundaries. That doesn't mean you stop holding onto hope while also preparing yourself for heartbreak."
They sat together for a long time after that, Lando's parents on either side of him, offering the kind of unconditional support that he'd taken for granted his entire life. The kind of support that Y/N had never had, that she'd been forced to live without while building herself into the remarkable woman she'd become despite every obstacle.
Lando took a shaky breath, his mind still spinning from the conversation, from the weight of his parents' words. But there was something else, something he hadn't told them yet. Something that had been haunting him since he'd woken up at 3:49 AM with tears on his face and the phantom weight of a child in his arms.
"There's... there's something else," he said quietly, pulling back from his mother's embrace. "Something that happened last night. Or this morning, I guess."
Cisca and Adam exchanged glances, concern evident in both their faces.
"What is it?" Adam asked gently.
Lando ran his hands through his hair, trying to find the words. "I had this dream. It was so vivid, so real. I was in this house—our house, I knew it was ours even though I'd never seen it before. And Y/N was there, in the kitchen. She looked exhausted, defeated. And then..." His voice cracked. "And then I saw her. Our daughter."
Cisca's hand came up to cover her mouth, her eyes widening.
"She was maybe four or five years old," Lando continued, the words tumbling out faster now. "She had Y/N's face but my eyes. Dark curls. And she was asking Y/N why we didn't talk to each other anymore, why we couldn't just be happy. She said..." He had to stop, his throat closing up. "She said she heard me crying when Y/N wasn't looking. That I told her stories about when we used to be happy."
"Oh, Lando," Cisca breathed.
"But here's the thing," Lando pressed on, needing to get it all out. "I couldn't move. I couldn't speak. I was frozen, just watching this happen. Watching our daughter cry, watching Y/N break down, completely helpless to do anything about it. And when I woke up..." He touched his face, remembering the wetness he'd found there. "I'd been crying in my sleep. It felt so real, Mum. More real than any dream I've ever had."
Cisca and Adam exchanged another look, this one longer, more significant.
"What?" Lando asked, catching the unspoken communication between them. "What is it?"
Cisca was quiet for a moment, seeming to choose her words carefully. "Lando, what you're describing... it sounds like it might be more than just a dream."
"What do you mean?"
"The soulmate bond," she said slowly. "It has certain... mechanisms. Features that most people never experience because they don't need them. One of those is shared dreaming."
Lando felt his heart skip a beat. "Shared dreaming? You mean—"
"I mean that under very specific circumstances, soulmates can share dreams," Cisca explained. "Experience the same dream at the same time, from different perspectives. It's extraordinarily rare because it only happens when both soulmates are aware of their connection but are separated or actively refusing to be together for an extended period. It's essentially the bond's emergency intervention. A last resort."
"The bond doesn't do this lightly," Adam added. "Shared dreaming is intense, invasive even. It breaks down walls, forces soulmates to confront their deepest fears and desires in a space where their conscious defenses can't protect them."
Lando's mind was racing. "But Max and Pietra are soulmates. They've never mentioned anything like this."
"Because they didn't need it," Cisca said gently. "They met, recognized the connection, and embraced it. There was no prolonged rejection, no one actively fighting against the bond. The shared dreaming only activates when soulmates know about each other but won't come together."
"Wait," Lando said, trying to process this. "So you're saying that dream might have been real? That Y/N might have had the same dream?"
"It's very possible, given the circumstances," Cisca said. "You both know about the marks. She's actively refusing the bond while you're desperate to make it work. That's exactly the kind of situation that would trigger shared dreaming."
"But I can't know for sure," Lando said, frustration bleeding into his voice. "I mean, it could have just been my subconscious processing everything, right? The fight, the way she kicked me out, my own fears about the future?"
"It could be," Adam agreed. "But the vividness, the fact that you woke up crying—those are all indicators that it might have been more than just your mind working through stress."
"If it is happening," Cisca said carefully, "the dreams will likely continue. And they'll probably intensify until you either come together or the situation reaches some kind of breaking point."
Lando dropped his head into his hands, overwhelmed. "I don't even know if it was a shared dream. Y/N might have just had a normal night's sleep while I had a nightmare about our hypothetical future."
"There's one way to find out," Cisca pointed out gently.
"Ask her?" Lando laughed bitterly. "Mum, last night she kicked me out of her apartment screaming that she couldn't stand to hear me lie to her anymore. How am I supposed to call her up and ask if she had a weird dream about our nonexistent daughter?"
"You might not have to ask directly," Adam suggested. "If she had the same dream, it would have affected her. Changed something."
"Lando," Cisca said firmly, taking his face in her hands the way she used to when he was a child. "Listen to me. If this was a shared dream—if the bond is intervening this way—it means something important."
She paused, her eyes searching his face.
"The bond doesn't intervene like this unless both people have genuine feelings for each other," she said carefully. "It's not a one-sided mechanism. The shared dreaming only activates when two soulmates want each other but can't get past their own barriers."
Lando felt his breath catch. "But she—she kicked me out. She screamed that she couldn't stand to hear me lie to her."
"Because she's terrified of what she feels," Cisca said gently. "The bond wouldn't activate this emergency intervention if she didn't have real, genuine feelings for you. It doesn't force connections that don't exist—it breaks down walls between people who already want each other but are too afraid to admit it."
"Think about it," Adam continued. "If Y/N truly felt nothing for you, if her rejection was absolute, the bond would recognize that. The shared dreaming is proof that she feels something real for you—something deep enough that the bond has decided you both need help getting past your fears."
The words settled over Lando with a weight he hadn't expected. "She has feelings for me," he said slowly, testing the words. "Real feelings. That's what the shared dreaming means."
"Yes," Cisca confirmed. "Her anger, her fear, her desperate attempts to push you away—those aren't signs of indifference. They're signs of someone fighting feelings that terrify her."
Lando felt something shift in his chest—not quite hope, but not quite despair either. Something in between.
"But," Cisca said, and her voice carried a warning, "having feelings for you doesn't mean she's ready to forgive you. It doesn't mean she's obligated to give you another chance. The bond can show her what you could have together, can even confirm that her feelings are real. But it can't make her trust you. That's something you have to earn yourself."
"The bond will bring you to the door," Adam said quietly. "But you're the one who has to prove you're worthy of walking through it."
"What do I do?" Lando asked, looking between his parents.
"You honor her boundaries," Cisca said immediately. "No matter how desperate you become, no matter how much the dreams are affecting you, you don't use them as ammunition. You don't pressure her or try to force her hand. If she had the same dream, she'll bring it up when she's ready. Or she won't. And you'll have to respect that either way."
"That's discipline," Adam added. "It's respect. It's proof that you've learned from your mistakes."
Lando nodded slowly, understanding settling over him. "Even if we're sharing these dreams, even if the bond is telling us we're meant to be together—I still have to wait. Still have to give her space."
"Yes," Cisca said. "Because the bond breaking down her walls won't be enough. You have to prove you're worthy of what's on the other side of those walls."
Eventually, Cisca stood up and announced she was making proper food, because tea and emotional breakdowns weren't sufficient sustenance for anyone. Adam stayed with Lando, sitting in comfortable silence while they both processed everything that had been said.
"Dad?" Lando said finally, his voice rough from crying. "Do you think I'm a bad person?"
Adam was quiet for a moment, considering the question with the seriousness it deserved.
"I think you made bad choices," he said finally. "I think you let fear and confusion turn you into someone cruel, someone who hurt another person deliberately and repeatedly. But I also think you're capable of change, capable of growth, capable of becoming the person you should have been all along."
He paused, his expression serious but not without compassion.
"The path forward won't be easy. But if the bond is intervening the way your mother described, then there's hope. Real hope. The bond is telling you that despite everything, Y/N has feelings for you. That her rejection isn't indifference—it's fear of caring too much."
"But having those feelings doesn't mean she owes me anything," Lando said quietly, repeating what his parents had drilled into him.
"No, it doesn't," Adam agreed. "But it means the door isn't closed. It's locked, maybe. Barricaded. But not sealed shut forever. The bond is working to open it. Your job is to become someone worthy of being let in when it does."
The brutal honesty hurt, but it came with something Lando hadn't expected: genuine hope. His parents were treating him like an adult, holding him accountable for his actions while still offering their support.
"I love her," Lando said, and it felt important to say it out loud. "I'm in love with her, and I have been since the moment we met. I just didn't want to admit it because it scared me."
"Then prove it," Adam said simply. "Not with words or gifts, but with patience. With respect. With the discipline to let her heal on her own timeline, not yours."
When Cisca called them for dinner, Lando forced himself to eat. His mother watched him with concerned but slightly less worried eyes.
"You need to take care of yourself," she said. "When she's ready—and the bond is telling us she will be ready eventually—you need to be the best version of yourself."
"I can't stop thinking about her," Lando admitted. "About this morning, about the dream, about everything."
"The bond will keep working on both of you," Adam said. "But you need to be patient while it does, and make sure you're worthy of what it's trying to give you."
Lando nodded, and for the first time since this morning, the acknowledgment didn't feel quite so much like dying.
"I want to meet her," Cisca said suddenly. "Someday, when she's ready—I want to meet the woman who's captured my son's heart so completely."
"When she's ready," Lando said quietly, but this time there was more certainty in his voice. Not "if." When. "After I've proven I deserve to be in her life."
"And when that day comes," Adam said, "we'll welcome her with open arms. We'll show her what a family is supposed to look like, how parents are supposed to treat their children. We'll help her understand that the love you feel for her is real, and that she deserves it."
The words made Lando's throat tight with emotion. His parents, despite their disappointment in his behavior, were already thinking about how to support Y/N. Already preparing to offer her the kind of unconditional love and acceptance she'd never received from her own family. And they were speaking about it with certainty, not just possibility—but also with the clear understanding that Lando had work to do first.
"Thank you," he said, his voice rough. "For not giving up on me. For being honest about how badly I fucked up. For helping me understand what I need to do."
"We'll always believe in you," Cisca said, reaching across the table to squeeze his hand. "And now you have reason to believe too. The bond is fighting for you both. But you still need to do the work to deserve what it's offering."
"Stay tonight," Adam said finally. "Get some proper sleep, eat some proper food. You need to be at your best for what's ahead."
Lando wanted to protest, wanted to argue that he needed to be closer to Y/N in case she needed him. But the exhaustion was catching up with him now, and there was something new to cushion it: hope.
"Okay," he agreed quietly. "Just for tonight."
As he helped his mother clear the dishes, as he settled onto the familiar sofa where he'd spent countless hours throughout his childhood, Lando allowed himself to hope. That someday Y/N would be sitting here with him. That she'd get to experience the warmth and acceptance of his family. That the bond would break down her walls the way it was designed to do.
But he also understood now that the bond opening the door wouldn't be enough. He had to prove he was worthy of walking through it.
The possibility that it wouldn't happen still existed. He'd damaged things severely, hurt her deeply. But the bond had given him something precious: the knowledge that her feelings were real.
And that changed everything—while also changing nothing about his responsibility to earn her trust.
It was, he thought as exhaustion finally began to pull him under, more than he deserved. But it was also proof that the universe believed in second chances.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, that dream lingered. The little girl with Y/N's face and his eyes. The kitchen that had felt like home. The future that had seemed so real.
If it had been a shared dream—and the more he thought about it, the more certain he became that it was—then Y/N was fighting feelings that were real. The bond had confirmed it.
All Lando had to do was be patient. Be worthy. Be ready when Y/N finally let those walls crumble.
And thanks to what his parents had helped him understand, he now believed—truly believed—that day would come.
As long as he did the work to deserve it.
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