Lando Norris lives at full speed. In a world of engines and expectation, he has learned to survive on instinct sharpened into precision, to measure life in tenths of a second and hide uncertainty behind control.
Louise Levine moves through louder arenas in quieter manners. Her strength is restraint, her power deliberate and contained. She doesnât demand attention â she calculates and recalibrate.
This is what happens when speed meets stillness â and two people built for pressure find something steady in each other.
Summary: The season arrives loud. Between first-race weekends chaos, Bingo-induced emotional breakdowns, parallel podiums, and opposite sides of the world, they discover that distance feels different when youâve already chosen each other.
Word Count: 4.1k
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Australia arrives loud and bright and unapologetic.
The kind of bright that doesnât ease you in. It hits all at onceâsun blazing off polished carbon fiber, heat already curling up from the asphalt even though itâs barely midmorning, the paddock buzzing with that unmistakable first-race electricity. Diesel, sunscreen, hot brakes, fresh coffee. Everyone talking at once. Everyone pretending theyâre not buzzing.
Louise steps out of Aston Martinâs garage doors and into it all.
Green.
Aston green.
It catches her off guard for half a secondâthe way the color looks under open sky instead of factory lights, the way it feels on her shoulders. Heavier than she expects. Not in a bad way. In a this means something way.
She adjusts her cap, rolls her shoulders once, grounding herself. The fabric creases comfortably, already familiar.
Earned.
She takes three steps forward beforeâ
âHey.â
She turns.
Lando stands a few feet away, McLaren papaya slicing through the crowd like a memory she never quite put down. Sunglasses pushed up into his hair, team kit already dusted with the beginnings of race weekend chaos. For half a second, neither of them says anything.
Too many cameras.
Too many people.
Too much compressed into a glance.
His eyes flick over her without apologyâcap, kit, the green.
âYou look good in Aston green,â he says, low enough that only she can hear.
Her mouth tilts, restrained but pleased. âBetter than Red Bull blue?â
He pretends to think, eyes drifting skyward. âI mean⊠that one had character.â
âRude.â
âBut,â he adds, voice softer now, something sincere threading through the teasing, âthis one looks like it fits.â
Something settles in her chest at that. Clicks into place.
âTry not to stare,â she says lightly. âPeople will talk.â
He grins, shameless. âLet them.â
They pass each other thenâshoulder to shoulder, just enough contact to count. A brush of fabric. Familiar warmth. Nothing that would make headlines.
Everything that matters anyway.
âž»
The official driversâ photo is its own special brand of chaos.
A raised platform sits in the open, baking under the Australian sun like itâs personally offended by the concept of shade. Twenty-two drivers gather in loose formation, milling around pretending they arenât already tired of being told where to stand. PR staff orbit the edges, clipboards raised, voices slicing through the air like air traffic control.
âOkayâeveryone check your marks please! Nico, further backâback, please. Liam, you can sit there. Kimiâhelmet where we can see it!â
Someone groans dramatically.
Someone else laughs.
Louise steps up without ceremony, the Aston green catching the light as she moves into place. The absence of Fernando is noticeableâbut not heavy. Thereâs no awkward shuffle, no whispered pause. Just a gap that has been⊠filled.
She belongs there in a way that doesnât ask permission.
Carlos catches her eye first, a slow grin spreading across his face.
âWell,â he says, head tilting, âthis is different.â
âMiss me already?â she shoots back.
âOnly when youâre not in front of me.â
George leans in from her other side, lowering his voice conspiratorially. âFirst race back and youâve already ruined everyoneâs weekend.â
She grins. âI aim to be efficient.â
A few places down the line, Max studies her with that sharp, assessing lookâhead tipped slightly, mouth neutral, eyes doing the math.
âDidnât think weâd see you here this early,â he says.
She lifts one shoulder. âSurprise.â
Not defensive. Not playful.
Just fact.
Max nods once, as if filing it away. âGood.â
Lewis shifts closer, easy and warm, lowering his voice. âGreen suits you.â
She glances down at herself, then back at him. âCareful,â she says. âPeople will think youâre trying to recruit me.â
He laughs. âIâd never. Not publicly.â
A PR staffer taps her elbow. âOne step left, please.â
Louise adjusts without breaking conversation, settling into position like muscle memory. Chin level. Hands loose. Stillness practiced.
Cameras start clicking. The group mostly stills. Mostly.
From the far edge of the formation, Lando watches.
He tells himself heâs just waiting for instructions. That heâs got time before his own cue. That this is normalâdrivers lining up, cameras flashing, the circus rolling on.
But his eyes keep finding her anyway.
He notices the subtle shifts around her. The way people angle their shoulders without realizing it. The half-steps others take, unconsciously giving her space. Not deference exactlyârecognition.
No one questions why sheâs there.
No one treats her like a placeholder.
She doesnât overperform. Doesnât shrink. Doesnât prove.
She just is.
Laughing quietly at something George says. Chin tipped up toward the sun. Squinting slightly, relaxed. At home.
The realization lands quietlyâbut solid, undeniable.
Sheâs not filling in.
Sheâs not borrowing a seat.
Sheâs racing.
And somehowâdespite knowing her better than almost anyoneâdespite knowing exactly how capable she isâit still steals his breath.
Australia doesnât soften for anyone.
But Louise stands there in the middle of it, steady as ever.
Unapologetic.
Exactly where she belongs.
âž»
Media day always hits her later than expected.
Not during the interviewsânever then. Louise is too practiced for that. She smiles on cue, answers cleanly, tilts her head just enough to soften the sharp edges of a loaded question before dismantling it with polite precision. She knows how to redirect without deflecting, how to give them something usable without giving them everything. Sheâs been doing this since she was barely old enough to sit in the chair without her feet swinging.
The adrenaline carries her through it all.
Cameras. Microphones. The low hum of voices repeating the same questions in slightly different disguises. Are you really committed? Is this temporary? How does it feel to be back? Do you feel like you have something to prove?
She answers. She smiles. She survives.
Itâs after that it catches her.
After the last âthank you,â after the final headset comes off and the PR handler gives her a nod that means youâre free. After she walks the familiar corridor back into Aston hospitality and the sliding doors whisper shut behind her, sealing out the paddock noise like a held breath finally released.
She drops into a chair like someoneâs pulled her plug.
âOh my god,â she mutters, tipping her head back against the cushion. âIf one more person asks me if Iâm âreally committed,â Iâm going to start answering in interpretive dance.â
Thereâs a ripple of laughter from somewhere to her left. Someone slides a cold bottle of water into her hand without asking. She takes it gratefully, twists the cap, and drinks like sheâs been wandering a desert instead of a media pen. Half the bottle is gone in seconds.
Her eyes fall closed as she breathes through the roomâthe clink of cutlery from a late lunch, the low murmur of engineers dissecting data, the soft, determined whirr of air conditioning fighting a losing battle against Melbourne heat.
âI am officially begging for mercy,â she adds, voice muffled as she presses her face into her hands. âJust five minutes where no one needs a quote, a soundbite, or my opinion on my own existence.â
A beat.
Thenâ
Thump.
Another.
Not footsteps exactly. Heavier. Softer. Rhythmic.
Louise peeks through her fingers.
Orange.
Big, rounded, unmistakable.
She freezes mid-breath.
ââŠIs thatââ she starts, incredulous.
Bingo waves.
Not a subtle wave. Not a polite one. A full-commitment, shoulder-involved, joy-radiating wave that feels like it was designed specifically to undo emotional exhaustion.
Louise gasps so sharply it almost turns into a hiccup. âOh my god.â
The Aston staff part instinctively, like they understand something sacred is happening, as Bingo steps forward carrying a basket that looks like it weighs roughly the same as a small child. Itâs overflowingâplush toys, hats, shirts, stickers, tiny backpacks, things in every shade of orange imaginable.
Right on topâ
A pair of orange Bingo ears.
âNo,â Louise says weakly, already pushing herself upright. âNo, this is cruel. You canât do this to me when Iâm vulnerable.â
Bingo presents the basket with a flourish so dramatic it deserves applause.
Louise presses both hands to her chest. âI would die for you.â
She doesnât even pretend to resist. She digs into the basket immediately, laughter bubbling out of her as she pulls things out one by one.
âOh my godâlook at this. And this. Who authorized this joy?â She looks around the room like sheâs expecting someone to stop her. No one does. âThis is⊠this is the best thing thatâs happened to me all week.â
Her eyes catch on the ears again.
They light up.
âOh absolutely.â
She plucks them out and slides them onto her head without hesitation, fingers adjusting them until they sit just right. Thereâs a beat of intense concentration, tongue caught briefly between her teeth. Someone snaps a candid photo right thenâLouise fully absorbed, exhausted and delighted in equal measure.
Bingo claps enthusiastically.
Louise steps forward and wraps her arms around the mascot without thinking, cheek pressed into the soft costume, eyes squeezed shut. She smiles so wide it almost hurts. Itâs not posed. Itâs not polished. Itâs pure, unguarded joyâthe kind she rarely gets to show when thereâs a lens involved.
âOkay,â someone says gently from behind a camera. âPhoto?â
Louise tightens her grip. âYes. But Iâm not moving.â
They take it like that.
The photo is exactly what it felt like: Louise hugging Bingo, eyes closed, Bingoâs arms around her, the ears slightly crooked on her head.
Caption:
Media day mercy granted đ§Ą
The comments detonate almost instantly.
@.f1fan88: SHE PUT THE EARS ON IMMEDIATELY đ
@.aussiegp: National treasure meets national treasure.
@.blueyofficial: Bingo says youâre welcome đ
@.gridwatch: This might be the most joy weâve ever seen in the paddock.
@.astonmartinfan: We support this partnership. Fully.
Louise looks her phone, smile still lingering.
For the first time all day, the noise fades.
She feels light.
âž»
She doesnât even take the Bingo ears off.
She flops back onto the couch, one leg hooked over the armrest, orange ears slightly crooked from hugging too hard. Her phone rings once before Landoâs face fills the screen.
He blinks.
Once.
Then again.
ââŠAre those,â he says slowly, carefully, like heâs approaching a wild animal, âBingo ears?â
She grins so hard her cheeks ache. âDONâT.â
âIâm not saying anything,â he replies immediately. âIâm observing.â
âYou left me alone for one media day,â she accuses, pointing at the screen. âOne. And Bingo personally rescued me from emotional collapse.â
His mouth twitches. âI saw the post.â
âOf course you did.â
âShe brought you a basket,â he adds. âI clocked the basket.â
Louise sits up, suddenly animated. âLando. It was full. Likeâfull-full. Plushies. Stickers. A tiny backpack. I blacked out emotionally.â
âShe gifted you mercy,â he says solemnly.
âShe did,â Louise agrees, just as serious. âI hugged her and didnât let go. I think thatâs legally binding.â
He laughs, quiet and fond. âYou look really happy.â
She pauses, fingers brushing the edge of one ear. âI was. Am.â
A beat settles between them.
âAlso,â she adds, mock-accusatory, âyou didnât warn me Australia would deploy emotional warfare.â
âThatâs on me,â he concedes. âI shouldâve known.â
They talk for a few more minutesâabout nothing and everything. Dinner plans. Her long runs. His meetings. The easy, unforced rhythm that only exists when neither of them is performing.
When they hang up, Louise doesnât notice anything different.
But later, when Lando locks his phone, the background has changed.
Itâs her. Hugging Bingo. Eyes closed. Smiling like the world is kind.
No announcement. No explanation.
Just proofâquiet and constantâthat even when theyâre not in the same place, he carries the evidence that sheâs happy.
âž»
Friday arrives sharp and electric, the paddock still pretending it doesnât know whatâs coming.
The Australian sun sits high and unapologetic, bouncing off bodywork and visors and the glazed expressions of people who didnât quite expect this. Louise slips into the Aston Martin like sheâs stepping into something already hers. No ceremony. No pause. Just the soft click of belts, the familiar narrowing of the world.
Out on track, she doesnât warm up so much as arrive.
Purple in sector two on her first proper push lap.
The commentary barely finishes the sentence before the timing screens update again.
âAnd already Louise is topping the timesheetsâpurple in sector two like itâs nothing.â
Engineers glance up from laptops. Someone mutters something that sounds suspiciously like, âAlready?â
Louise keeps going.
She doesnât chase the lap. She lets it come to her. The car listens. The car responds. Neweyâs fingerprints are all over itâand so is her understanding of it. She feels where it wants to rotate, where it resists, where it needs patience instead of force.
Another lap.
Another purple.
By the end of FP2, the paddock has stopped pretending.
Phones buzz. Screens flood with reactions faster than anyone can moderate them.
Louise and Newey in the same team should be illegal.
This is what happens when talent meets trust.
Who said she wasnât committed?
She climbs out of the car calm, sweat-dark hair escaping her helmet, expression neutral like she hasnât just unsettled half the grid.
Inside the garage, someone hands her a drink.
âThat felt⊠good,â she says simply.
Adrian only nods. âWeâll look at the data.â
But the corner of his mouth betrays him.
â
Saturday doesnât soften.
If anything, it sharpens.
Qualifying day hums with a different frequencyânerves pulled tight, mistakes punished instantly. Louise stands in the garage, eyes closed for a moment before she climbs in, breathing slow, deliberate. No superstition. Just focus.
Q1 is tidy. Q2 cleaner. By Q3, the air feels thin.
She hooks the lap together piece by piece. Braking points kissed, not attacked. Kerbs used just enough to matter. The Aston grips like it trusts her.
When she crosses the line, thereâs a half-second pause.
Thenâ
Purple. Everywhere.
âThis is dominance,â the broadcast says, voices climbing. âControlled, clinical, devastating.â
Pole position isnât a surprise by the time it happens.
Itâs confirmation.
Louise steps out of the car to a wall of noiseâcheers, gasps, recalculating expectations. She pulls her cap on, squints into the sun, and smiles just once.
â
Sunday arrives heavy with anticipation.
Race day energy crackles differentlyâthicker, louder, full of opinions that havenât yet been proven wrong. Louise stands on the grid, hands on her hips, eyes scanning the stretch of asphalt ahead. The car vibrates beneath her, eager.
Lights out.
She launches clean.
No wheelspin. No drama. She claims turn one like it was always hers.
From there, she doesnât look back.
Lap by lap, the gap opens.
Five seconds.
Ten.
Fifteen.
The broadcast leans into it because it has to.
âThis is a statement drive.â
âSheâs rewriting the conversation in real time.â
She manages tyres like sheâs budgeting time. Pushes when it matters. Backs off when it doesnât. No mistakes. No mercy.
When the chequered flag waves, she crosses the line first, radio crackling with voices that sound like theyâre trying not to shout.
Noise. Color. Adrenaline ricocheting off concrete and carbon fiber. She barely has time to unclip her helmet before someone bumps her shoulder.
âOi,â Lando says, helmet off, grin wide despite the sweat. âGo easy on us, please.â
She turns, eyes bright, flushed, alive. âNever.â
He laughs, breathless. âThirdâs the best I could do today.â
She leans in just enough to be heard. âYou did great.â
For half a secondâjust long enoughâthey forget the cameras. Forget the grid. Forget the narratives still catching up.
Australia roars around them.
And somewhere between green and orange, something new settles into place. Not competition. Not distance.
Balance.
âž»
The airport goodbyes are quiet now.
Not heavy. Not dramatic. Just⊠practiced.
Melbourne dissolves into glass corridors and moving walkways. Louise boards her plane to Zurich first; Landoâs flight to Sakhir leaves an hour later. Different terminals. Same rhythm.
They stand near the private hangar, bags at their feet, the smell of jet fuel sharp in the air.
Lando reaches out, fingers brushing her wrist. âText me when you land.â
She nods. âYou too. Donât let jet lag make you dramatic.â
He scoffs. âIâm always dramatic.â
She smiles, then steps into him, forehead resting against his collarbone. No cameras here. No paddock hum. Just the low murmur of travel and the quiet certainty that this is how it works now.
âBahrain,â she says. âBe fast.â
âSwitzerland,â he replies. âDonât fall off.â
She laughs into his chest. âThatâs not encouraging.â
He presses a kiss into her hair anyway. âYouâve got this.â
They separate with one last squeeze of hands. He watches until sheâs gone.
â
Bahrain greets Lando with heat that clings even after sunset.
Dry nights. Neon reflections on polished concrete. The circuit glows under floodlights like itâs alive. Familiar enough to steady him. Sharp enough to focus him.
Race week resets everything.
Briefings blur into track walks. Engineers speak in clipped sentences, fingers tracing invisible racing lines over data sheets. Lando listens, nods, asks the right questionsâbut part of his mind is already running the lap, corner by corner.
Late that night, when the paddock empties and the air finally cools enough to breathe, he stops near the pit wall and takes a photo.
The car under floodlights.
The sky impossibly blue.
He sends it.
Same chaos. Different timezone.
The reply comes almost instantly.
Leather boots dusted with dirt.
A horseâs neck in frame, breath fogging the air.
Cold chaos. Still chaos.
He smiles.
â
Switzerland greets Louise with quiet.
Not silenceânever thatâbut gentler sound. Hooves on packed earth. Leather creaking. The soft snort of horses warming up in early morning cold. Barns that smell like hay, frost, and effort.
Her mornings start before the sun fully commits.
She braids her horseâs mane with practiced hands, fingers moving automatically while her thoughts settle. Thereâs something grounding in itâdoing something slow and physical before asking her body for precision.
The arena air is sharp. Clean. It burns her lungs in a way she welcomes.
This competition isnât loud like racing. No engines screaming. Just tension held in quiet breaths, judges watching everything.
She rides clean rounds. Tight turns. No faults.
When she dismounts, legs burning in a completely different way, she checks her phone.
FP2 went well. P4.
She grins, snaps a quick selfieâhelmet hair, flushed cheeks, smile crooked.
Clear round. No faults.
A beat.
Thenâ
Proud of you.
She exhales, warmth settling behind her ribs.
Different worlds. Same pulse.
And neither of them missing a step.
â
Back in Bahrain, Landoâs weekend tightens the way a fist does when it knows itâs about to need strength.
Friday night had been loose, almost buoyantâthe afterglow of Australia still humming under his skinâbut by Saturday morning the circuit feels sharper. Less forgiving. The desert doesnât care about momentum; it demands presence.
FP3 runs hot. Literally and figuratively.
The car feels alive under him in a way that makes his instincts itchâin the good way. Responsive on turn-in, stable through the long sweepers, playful when he dares to lean on it just a fraction more. He pushes, backs off, pushes again, learning the limits like a language he already half-speaks.
In the garage, engineers crowd the screens, murmuring in that low, analytical cadence that always makes him feel like heâs inside the brain of a machine.
âBalance is good,â someone says.
âRearâs holding better than yesterday.â
Lando nods, pulling his gloves off, flexing his fingers. He jokesâbecause thatâs what he doesâbut thereâs an edge to him now. Something quieter. More inward. The part of him that shows up when things stop being theoretical.
Between sessions, he sits on the pit wall with his phone balanced against his knee, scrolling.
Her horse mid-jump, frozen in that impossible moment where gravity seems optional.
Her boots tossed aside in the barn aisle, mud-streaked and unapologetic.
A cup of tea balanced far too close to a saddle, steam curling into cold air.
He smiles without meaning to.
You look cold, he texts.
The reply comes fast.
You look sweaty.
He huffs a laugh.
Accurate.
He sends her a photo backâhelmet hair flattened, suit half-zipped, eyes squinting against the sun.
Still worth it, he adds.
A few minutes later, qualifying arrives like a held breath.
He climbs into the car, clicks the belts tight, and everything else recedes. No Switzerland. No distance. Just braking points and margins and the tiny adjustments that separate a good lap from a great one.
Q1: clean.
Q2: sharper.
Q3: right on the knife-edge.
He extracts everything he can without tipping over it. When the chequered flag falls, he sits back, heart pounding, listening to the radio chatter resolve into something solid.
Second row.
P3.
Close enough to taste. Far enough to want.
That night, the hotel balcony hums with city noise and heat that refuses to fully leave. Lando kicks his shoes off, drops into a chair, and FaceTimes her before he can overthink it.
She answers on the second ring.
Wrapped in a thick sweater, hair still damp from a shower, sitting cross-legged on a narrow bed that looks about half as soft as the Aston motorhome couch. Her cheeks are pink from cold. Her eyes bright.
âYou look tired,â he says immediately.
She squints at him. âYou say that like you arenât.â
He grins and tilts the phone, angling it so she can see the circuit glowing in the distance, floodlights cutting clean lines through the dark.
âRace tomorrow,â he says. âYou?â
âFinal round in the morning,â she answers. âThen Iâll try not to stress-watch your race.â
âTry,â he repeats, amused.
She smiles, softer now, the edge of focus easing just a little. âThinking of you.â
âAlways,â he says, without hesitation. Itâs not dramatic. Just true.
They sit like that for a momentâtwo rectangles of light, two different worlds stitched together by signal and habitâuntil the fatigue catches up with both of them.
âGo sleep,â she says.
âYou too,â he counters.
They hang up reluctantly.
â
In Switzerland, Louise wakes before her alarm.
The barn is quiet in that deep, early-morning wayâbreath fogging, hooves shifting softly, the world held in suspension. She moves through her routine with practiced calm: brushing, braiding, checking tack. Letting her body remember what it needs to do before her brain has a chance to interfere.
The final round course is demanding but fair. Technical lines. Tight distances. Nothing flashyâeverything honest.
She mounts, settles, breathes.
The ride unfolds cleanly.
No rushing. No forcing. She lets the horse do what it knows how to do, trusts the preparation, the hours, the quiet discipline that never makes headlines.
When they clear the final jump, she exhales fully for the first time in what feels like hours.
Clean again.
Second place.
Not firstâbut solid. Earned. Grounded.
When she dismounts, legs burning, breath coming fast, she laughs quietly and leans her forehead against her horseâs neck. Just for a second. Just long enough to feel the warmth, the steadiness, the reality of it.
âWell done,â she murmurs, to the horse or to herselfâit hardly matters.
She checks her phone as she walks back toward the barn.
No messages yet.
Time zones.
She smiles anyway.
Race day in Bahrain comes fast.
The circuit wakes loud and bright, already humming with expectation. Lando feels it settle over him like armor as he suits upâfamiliar, heavy, reassuring.
Helmet on.
Visor down.
The world narrows to steering wheel lights and radio chatter.
The start is clean and aggressive. He holds position, fights for inches, defends when he needs to, attacks when the window opens. Tire management becomes instinct, pressure something he wears easily now.
Second place isnât handed to him.
Itâs earnedâlap by lap, decision by decision.
When he crosses the line, relief hits first. Then satisfaction.
P2.
On the cool-down lap, his thoughts driftânot to the podium, not to the pointsâbut to a quiet barn in Switzerland and a woman who understands exactly what it takes to hold focus across worlds.
â
Later that night, continents apart but hearts oddly aligned, they talk again.
Heâs sprawled on a couch, race suit discarded, hair still damp. Sheâs back in her room, medals resting casually on the dresser like theyâre just another piece of clutter, boots kicked off wherever they landed.
âParallel podiums,â he says, voice lazy with exhaustion.
âParallel exhaustion,â she counters.
They smile at each other through the screen.
Thereâs a pauseânot awkward, just full.
Two lives running side by side again.
Not drifting.
Choosing.
And somewhere between engines and hooves, neon lights and quiet barns, across time zones and entirely different kinds of pressure, they carry the same certainty with them.
This isnât distance.
Itâs momentum.
And theyâre moving forwardâtogether, even when apart.
Omg I love your writing as someone with autism and loves f1 it is so refreshing!
Thank you so much! I try my best to make Louise a real and well developed character.
If you or anyone reading, have suggestions or doubts on topics and how she might navigate a scenario please come talk! I love developing ideas! and yapping about her
(I still have some aspects of her development coming up in future chapters and interludes, but I'm always open for new ones)
Summary: Lando oversleeps. Netflix shows up at his door. And a moment that barely lasts a few seconds ends up sending the internet into complete meltdown.
Word Count: 2.4k
Masterlist
Like, reblog, share and feel free to send a message or to leave a comment. Ask box always open!
If you want to join the taglist, just let me know and Iâll add you to it!
She arrives past midnight, the kind of late where Monaco feels like itâs been emptied out for maintenance.
The elevator ride up is silent except for the soft hum of cables and the faint ocean smell that always sneaks in through the garage. Louise kicks her shoes off the second the door closes behind them, dropping her bag wherever gravity decides it belongs. Lando looks up, turns, and finds her already halfway toward sleepâhoodie slipping off one shoulder, eyes unfocused, running purely on muscle memory.
âYou made it,â he says quietly, like if he says it too loudly the night might take it back.
âMm,â she answers, which could mean yes, could mean thank you, could mean nothing at all.
They donât talk much. Thereâs no recap of travel delays or schedules or what tomorrow holds. Just the soft choreography of familiarity settling inâbathroom light flicked on and off, the muted rustle of sheets, the city glowing faintly through the glass like a held breath.
Sheâs asleep before her head fully hits the pillow.
Lando lies awake a little longer, watching the way her breathing evens out, how she curls instinctively onto her side, hair fanning across the pillows like sheâs claimed the space without meaning to. Itâs peaceful in a way that feels fragile. He lets himself have it. Just this. Just tonight.
When he finally sleeps, itâs deep and unguarded.
Too deep.
â
The phone rings.
Not the gentle vibration of his alarm. Not the slow, merciful fade-in of music. A real ring. Loud. Insistent. Wrong.
Lando bolts upright, heart already sprinting.
âWhatâwhat time is it?â he mutters, fumbling for the phone, squinting at the screen.
His stomach drops.
âShit.â
He swings his legs out of bed, already moving before his brain catches up. Today. Drive To Survive. The shoot he absolutely, completely forgot about. He drags a hand through his hair, pacing once, twice, panic sharpening his movements.
âOkay. Okay.â
Louise doesnât stir. Sheâs still tucked into the mattress like the world hasnât changedâbody curled under the duvet, one hand tucked beneath her cheek, hair scattered everywhere in that impossible way that only ever looks like this when sheâs really asleep.
He answers the phone, voice pitched low but polite, apologies stacked neatly on top of each other. The crewâs already downstairs. Theyâre flexible. They always areâuntil they arenât.
âTwo minutes.â he says.
He throws on a hoodie, pulls on shoes without socks, grabs his keys. The front door clicks open.
Out in the hallway, the crew waitsâmics ready, cameras slung low, that practiced casualness that always pretends this is all very normal, very chill, just another morning.
âSorry,â Lando says immediately, half a grin already in place. âCompletely forgot.â
âNo worries,â one of them says, already stepping forward to clip the mic onto his hoodie. âWeâll start easy.â
They move into the apartment like theyâve done it a hundred times before, respectful but efficient, furniture becoming background, life becoming set dressing. A camera settles near the window. Another by the kitchen island.
âJust do your thing,â the producer says. âMorning stuff.â
Lando nods, leans into it. Armor on.
He stands by the window first, hands in his pockets, staring out at the harbor like heâs contemplating something profound instead of mentally replaying his schedule and silently begging the day to slow down. The light hits his face just rightâsoft, flattering, accidental.
âPerfect,â someone murmurs.
He moves to the kitchen, fills the kettle, pretends he drinks something other than caffeine and adrenaline. He heats something upâleftovers from the night beforeâstirs absentmindedly, eyes unfocused enough to sell the illusion of seriousness.
They get shots of him at his computer next. Tabs open, brow furrowed, scrolling through something that looks important if you donât zoom in enough to realize itâs just emails and calendar alerts. He nods at nothing. Clicks once or twice. Performance mode, seamless.
âOkay,â the producer says eventually. âWeâll head out in a sec.â
Lando nods again, relief flickering through him.
Before anyone can redirect him, he turns down the hallway.
âIâll justâtwo seconds,â he says lightly, already walking.
He opens the bedroom door it slowly, like the space inside might spook if he moves too fast.
Louise hasnât changed position. Still curled on her side, duvet pulled up to her chin now, hair everywhereâacross the pillow, her cheek, one eye. The morning light blocked out by the curtains guarding her peace in the dark.
He steps inside and closes the door behind him. Fully. Or at least he thinks he does.
He sits on the edge of the bed again, quieter now, the outside world dimmed to a distant hum. His fingers brush her hair back from her face, gentle, familiar. She stirs, barelyânose wrinkling, lips parting in a sleepy, confused little sound.
âHey,â he whispers. âSorry. Iâve gotta go for a bit.â
She hums in agreement, eyes still closed, fingers tightening for half a second before letting go. He leans down, presses a kiss to her hairâunthinking, instinctive, the kind of gesture you donât realize is intimate until someone points it out later.
âText me when you wake up, yeah?â he adds, quieter still.
She makes a small, indignant sound and shifts closer to the warmth he leaves behind.
When he stands, she curls back into the pillow, already halfway gone again, breath evening out as if he was never there at all.
He watches her for one more second than necessary.
Then he turns, slips out, and closes the door.
In the hallway, the crew is already repositioning, talking over each other about angles and light. No one says anything. No one needs to.
One camera, left running by habit more than intention, catches the door clicking shut behind him.
And laterâmuch laterâthatâs the shot theyâll keep.
â
When the season airs, it happens slowly at first.
A blink-and-you-miss-it moment, tucked between engine noise and harbor shots, between voiceovers about pressure and expectations. Forty seconds of morning routine. Lando at the window. Lando in the kitchen. Lando walking down a hallway, half-dressed, half-awake, real in a way the show only allows by accident.
Then the door.
Itâs barely a scene. Barely framed. The bedroom is dim, curtains pulled, light muted to a soft blue-gray haze. The camera never crosses the threshold. It doesnât need to.
People pause it there.
At first, itâs just a handful of viewers. Someone on Twitter posts a screenshot: the sliver of a bed, the edge of a duvet, a spill of hair across a pillow. No face. No identifying features. Just the suggestion of a body, tucked in, warm, private.
âWaitâwhoâs that??â
Others rewind. Slow it down to half speed. Quarter speed. Frame by frame. They brighten the image. Zoom in too far, until the pixels start to break apart and the moment becomes abstract again.
The hair is dark. Or maybe just shadowed. The body under the duvet could belong to anyone. The voiceâif you listen closely enough, if you wear headphones and crank the volumeâbarely reaches the mic. A low sound. A grunt. Something like mmh. Something human.
Too far from Landoâs microphone to be clear.
Too soft to be certain.
Reddit threads bloom overnight.
r/formula1
âDTS S11 Ep3 â whoâs in Landoâs bed??â
r/LandoNorris
âOkay but that bedroom scene?? Iâm not insane right??â
TikTok fills with edits. Zooms. Circles. Arrows. Dramatic music layered over the door closing. Captions in all caps.
THEY LEFT THIS IN??
WHO IS SHE???
LAN_DOES_HAVE_A_GIRLFRIEND CONFIRMED???
People argue about everything except what matters.
Some say itâs nothing. A friend. A family member. A one-night thing the editors left in for drama.
Others dig.
They pull up old interviews. Old clips. Old moments that suddenly feel suspicious in hindsight.
Someone reposts that Truth or Lie segmentâthe one where Lando lost to the machine.
The questions scroll across screens again.
âAre you currently in a relationship?â
His answer, careful. His smile, too quick. The machineâs verdict flashing red.
LIE.
At the time, everyone laughed it off. A bit. A joke. Another example of the machine being overly dramatic.
Now it hits different.
âSo,â someone tweets, âthe machine was right?â
That tweet gets forty thousand likes.
Comment sections spiral.
âHe literally tried to hide it.â
âHeâs private, leave him alone.â
âNo because WHY is he kissing her hair??â
âThatâs not a hookup thing, thatâs a
routine
âHe said âtext meâ like itâs normal??â
Clips get stitched together. The bedroom moment side-by-side with that interview. With other quiet moments people suddenly recontextualizeâhim glancing off-camera in paddocks, soft smiles that donât quite fit the narrative heâs supposed to have.
Theories multiply.
Some people swear itâs a long-term girlfriend. Others insist itâs someone new. Someone off-grid. Someone intentional.
No one can agree on who she is.
Because the footage doesnât give them enough.
Sheâs too covered. Too still. Too anonymous. Just hair and breath and presence. Just enough to spark curiosity. Not enough to satisfy it.
And thatâs what drives them insane.
Louise doesnât watch the episode when it first drops.
She finds out because Charlotte texts her a single screenshot at seven in the morning.
Itâs grainy. Overexposed. The corner of a bed and a blur of hair circled aggressively in red.
Charlotte:
So. This is happening.
Louise stares at it for a long moment, sitting cross-legged on her couch, coffee going cold in her hands.
His phone doesnât stop buzzing. Group chats light up. His friends send screenshots with varying levels of chaos.
BRO???
WHO IS THAT???
YOU LEFT THE DOOR OPEN????
He watches the clip once. Twice.
The moment feels smaller on screen than it did in real life. Flattened. Reduced. Stripped of context.
They donât see the way he hesitated before going in.
They donât see the way she grabbed his sleeve.
They donât hear the softness in her voice, the familiarity.
They donât know it was just⊠normal.
He turns his phone face down.
â
The next time they all end up in a Discord call, Max waits exactly forty-three seconds before bringing it up.
Which, honestly, is restraint.
Theyâve barely loaded into the lobby. Ed is still complaining about his ping. Someone else is eating directly into their microphone. Lando has just sat down, headset crooked, one leg hooked over the arm of his chair.
âRight,â Max says.
Lando sighs immediately.
âOh, for fuckâs sake.â
âWhat was that?â
âWhat was what?â
âThe girl in your bed on Netflix.â
Tom goes silent so fast itâs almost impressive.
âOh my God,â he says. âThere was actually a girl?â
âDonât act surprised,â Max replies. âIâve been telling you all for months.â
âYouâve been saying insane things for months,â Ed says.
âAnd I was right.â
Lando drops his head back against the chair and closes his eyes briefly.
âIt was literally two seconds.â
âIt was enough,â Max says.
âEnough for what?â
âFor me to know thatâs her.â
Lando goes still for a fraction of a second.
Too small for anyone else to notice.
Max notices.
âThe girl from the golf swing, or the updated version of her.â he says triumphantly.
âOh my God,â Tom says again, delighted now. âThe golf swing girl?â
âOr the one from the phone,â Max continues, warming to it now. âThe one you smile at like an idiot.â
âI do not smile at my phone.â
âYou do. Itâs awful.â
âThe shortened golf trip,â Max presses. âThe weird whispering in calls. The mysterious âstuff at home.ââ
Thereâs a pause.
Then Ed, sounding deeply offended: âYou shortened the golf trip for a girl?â
âSheâs notââ Lando starts, then stops.
Three people immediately make identical noises of victory.
âOh Shit,â Max says. âHe was about to say sheâs not a girl, sheâsââ
âShut up.â
ââspecial.â
âI was not.â
âYou absolutely were.â
Lando rubs a hand over his face.
âYou are all incredibly annoying.â
âIs she there right now?â Max asks immediately.
âNo.â
Too quick.
Max grins.
âSheâs there.â
âShe is not.â
âLando,â Tom, suspicious now. âIf sheâs there and youâve had us all talking this entire timeââ
âSheâs not here,â Lando says again.
âLiar.â
âIâm literally alone.â
âThen why do you sound guilty?â
âBecause youâre interrogating me like Iâve committed a crime.â
âYou basically have,â Ed says. âYouâve had a secret girlfriend for, what, months?â
âActuallyââ Lando stops again, which is somehow worse.
Max laughs so hard he has to lean away from his mic.
âYou are doing an unbelievably bad job of denying this.â
âThere is nothing to deny.â
âThen who was in your bed?â
Lando is quiet for a second.
Then Max asks, more softly, âAre you serious about her?â
Lando looks down.
At nothing, really. The edge of his desk. His hands. The little crack in the wood heâs been meaning to fix for months.
His expression changes before he can stop it.
The sharpness leaves him. The practiced deflection.
âYeah,â he says quietly.
No one speaks for a second.
Max leans back in his chair.
Because there it is.
The thing heâs been piecing together for so long.
Not flirting. Not a phase. Not Lando getting briefly attached before losing interest and moving on.
Something rooted.
Something real.
âAre you happy?â Max asks.
Lando doesnât answer straight away.
âYeah,â he says.
And Max, to his own horror, feels his chest ache a little.
âDisgusting,â he says immediately.
Lando laughs.
âShut up.â
â
Later, when things calm enough for them to talk about it, they sit on opposite ends of the couch, both scrolling, both pretending theyâre not.
âTheyâre saying you have a secret girlfriend,â Louise says mildly.
He snorts. âDo I?â
She glances up at him. âDo you?â
He shrugs, helpless and amused and tired all at once. âApparently the internet knows better than me.â
She smiles at that. Small. Fond.
âThat bothers you?â she asks. Not accusatory. Curious.
He thinks about it.
âThey think they know,â he says finally. âFrom⊠nothing.â
She nods. âTheyâre good at that.â
Silence settles. Comfortable. Heavy.
âThey canât even tell itâs me,â she adds after a moment, almost amused. âI feel like I should be offended.â
He looks at her then, really looks. The same hair. The same presence. The same person who somehow managed to exist both everywhere and nowhere at once.
âI kind of like that they canât,â he says quietly.
She meets his gaze.
âYeah,â she says. âMe too.â
Outside, the internet keeps spinning theories. Freezing frames. Drawing conclusions.
Inside, the truth remains exactly what it always wasâunfilmed, unposted, intact.
Summary: Pre-season brings early mornings, separate garages, and a growing list of impossible goals. While Louise keeps finding new mountains to climb, Lando discovers that the best part isnât keeping up with herâitâs watching her become exactly who sheâs meant to be.
Word Count: 4.3k
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The house in Aylesbury wakes before the sun.
Not with urgency. Not with noise.
Just the soft, familiar hum of things coming alive.
The heating clicks on in gentle stages, a low whisper through the floors. Somewhere in the kitchen, the espresso machine warms itselfâan expensive, overqualified appliance that has never once made coffee in its life. It hisses softly as it prepares milk and water for hot chocolate or tea, like it has accepted its fate.
Landoâs alarm vibrates once on the bedside table.
He silences it without opening his eyes.
Louise is already gone.
By the time he pads down the stairway, hair still a mess, hoodie pulled on crooked, he finds her perched on the kitchen counter in thick socks, knees tucked in slightly, tablet balanced against her thigh.
Sheâs fully absorbedâeyes scanning dense blocks of text and diagrams, fingers occasionally flicking to zoom or scroll.
Schematics fill the screen. Suspension geometry. Development notes. Margins crowded with her handwritingâtight, precise, urgent.
Arrows. Circles. A box in the corner that reads: ASK ABOUT THIS in all caps.
Lando doesnât announce himself.
He just moves behind her, close enough that his chest brushes her back, and presses a kiss to the side of her neck.
âMorning,â he murmurs, voice still rough with sleep.
She hums in response, leaning back into him automatically. âMm.â
âYouâre late,â she adds, eyes never leaving the screen.
He checks the clock on the oven. âBy two minutes.â
She tilts her head just enough to look at him sideways. âUnacceptable.â
He smiles into her shoulder, arms sliding around her waist. âIâll try harder tomorrow.â
They stay like that for a momentâher warm from the tea, him grounding her without thinking about it.
Breakfast happens without discussion.
Toast pops up. Fruit gets rinsed and sliced. Something cold comes out of the fridge from their meal plan. They move around each other in an easy choreography that didnât exist a year ago but now feels permanent.
Lando refills her mug before she notices itâs empty.
Louise hands him his keys before he can forget them.
At the front door, they pause.
Not because they need toâbut because they always do.
A small ritual. Quiet but firm.
âYouâll text me when you get there,â she says, already reaching for her coat.
âYouâll eat lunch,â he counters.
She wrinkles her nose. âI always eat lunch.â
âYou forget lunch when youâre focused.â
She considers that, then sighs. âFine.â
They kissâsoft, grounding, just long enough to matter.
Then the door opens.
Cold air rushes in.
And they splitâtwo cars, two directions, pulling away from the same place.
âž»
McLaren hums in a very different way.
Screens glow in clusters. Engineers lean over desks, conversations overlapping in half-finished sentences. Pre-season always carries its own tensionâhope sharpened by pressure, excitement edged with anxiety.
Lando slips into it like muscle memory clicking back into place.
Simulator sessions blur together. Feedback loops tighten. Long discussions about balance, degradation, feel. Heâs focused, precise, tuned inâbut thereâs something lighter in him now.
Someone notices.
âGood winter?â an engineer asks casually, not looking up from the data.
Lando shrugs, hands on his hips. âYeah. Productive.â
Itâs not a lie.
Between runs, he checks his phone.
A message lights up the screen.
LOUISE:
First meeting done. They let me talk for twenty minutes uninterrupted. I may have blacked out.
He grins, thumbs flying.
LANDO:
Proud of you. Did you scare them?
Three dots appear. Disappear. Reappear.
LOUISE:
Only a little.
He locks the phone, steadier than before.
âž»
At Aston, Louise doesnât just fit.
She thrives.
The development department hums with focused energyâno cameras, no performative chatter. Just people who speak in data and diagrams, who listen when someone asks a good question.
Sheâs leaning over a model now, fingers tracing the airflow path with careful precision.
âWhat if we soften this transition?â she asks, tapping lightly. âYouâd lose a touch of peak downforce, but the consistencyââ
âThat could fix the rear instability,â someone finishes, eyes lighting up.
Louise nods, already building on it. âAnd it might give the drivers more confidence on entry.â
No one interrupts her.
No one talks over her.
They donât treat her like a novelty.
They treat her like a colleague.
Later, in the sim, she pushes carefullyâtesting limits, listening to what the car tells her instead of forcing it. The feedback is subtle, layered, honest.
She smiles to herself.
Thisâthisâis what she wanted.
âž»
Evenings fold them back together.
Louise usually gets home first. Shoes by the door. Socks padding across the floor. One of her prepped meals reheated while the house waits.
When Lando arrives, the place exhales.
He drops his bag. She hands him a plate without asking.
They sit at the kitchen island, shoulders brushing, trading pieces of their days like offerings.
âYour turn,â she says, nudging him with her knee.
âWe're making progress,â he replies. âItâs small, butââ
âSmall matters,â she says immediately.
He smiles. âYouâd like my engineers.â
âTheyâd like me,â she counters.
He laughs, reaching for her hand.
Later, they sprawl on the couchâLouise half-asleep against his chest, Lando absentmindedly playing with her fingers, the television murmuring something neither of them is really watching.
âYouâre happy,â he says quietly.
She doesnât deny it. âI am.â
He nods, satisfied.
No fear. No guilt.
Just two people running parallelâseparate tracks, same direction.
And for the first time in a long while, neither of them feels like theyâre leaving something behind to move forward.
Theyâre building it together.
âž»
The pre-season camp starts the same way it always does.
Too early. Too cold. Too much running.
The air still has that thin, sharp bite that sneaks under layers and settles in joints, the kind that makes breath puff white and muscles complain before theyâve even been asked to do anything. The track is damp, grass dark with dew, floodlights still humming because the sun hasnât quite committed yet.
Louise steps out of the car and immediately regrets every decision that led her here.
She pulls her jacket tighter around herself, squinting at the sky like it personally offended her. âIt is not a reasonable hour to be perceived,â she mutters.
Lando is already stretching, annoyingly awake, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet like this is Christmas morning and not sanctioned suffering. âYou said that last year.â
âAnd I was right last year too,â she replies, tugging her beanie lower.
John is waiting for them, clipboard tucked under his arm, cap pulled low. He has the unmistakable air of a man who thrives on watching elite athletes question their life choices before sunrise.
âGood morning!â he says brightly. Far too brightly. âHope you both slept well.â
Louise narrows her eyes at him, suspicious. âI donât trust the tone of your voice.â
Johnâs smile widens. Lando snorts, bending to retie his shoes. âYou really donât.â
They start with testing.
VOâ max first. Masks, tubes, numbers climbing on screens that feel accusatory in their precision. Reaction drillsâlights flashing, hands moving on instinct. Strength benchmarks that make Louiseâs shoulders burn in a way she hates but secretly respects.
John calls out numbers, scribbles notes, hums occasionally like heâs halfway through solving a riddle only he can see.
Louise is solid. Sharp. Noticeably stronger than last year. Her form is cleaner, movements more efficient. She doesnât miss that John nods more often now, doesnât miss the quiet good under his breath after one particularly clean set.
She drinks water, stretches her calves, lets herself feelâjust brieflyâpleased.
Thenâ
âRunning portion,â John announces, flipping a page with deliberate slowness.
Louise freezes mid-stretch.
Slowly, she looks up.
âNo.â
John doesnât even blink. âYes.â
Lando grins, already jogging in place, far too pleased with himself. âCome on, âchampâ.â
She swivels toward him, eyes blazing. âYou say that like I donât know you enjoy this. There is something deeply wrong with you.â
âEndorphins,â he says cheerfully. âGrowth.â
They line up anyway.
The first lap is fine. Annoying, but fine. Louise sets a steady pace, breath controlled, mind doing that thing where she pretends this is temporary.
The second lap is⊠less fine. Her thighs start to protest. The cold air feels sharper on the inhale. She shoots Lando a look as he drifts slightly ahead, still chatting like this is a jog in the park.
By the third lap, Louise is dramatically, profoundly over it.
âThis is unnecessary!â she shouts as they pass John again. âCars exist! That is the entire point of this sport!â
âEndurance!â John calls back. âMental resilience!â
âI am mentally resilient in other ways!â she yells, arms pumping harder now out of pure spite.
Lando laughs breathlessly beside her. âYouâre doing great.â
âI will push you into the bushes,â she says through clenched teeth.
âWorth it,â he grins.
They finish eventually.
Louise staggers off the track and promptly collapses onto the grass, flat on her back, arms spread wide like sheâs surrendered herself to the earth. She stares up at the pale sky, chest heaving.
âI hate this,â she declares to no one in particular.
Lando drops down beside her, hands on his knees, still smiling like an idiot.
John crouches near her head, clipboard balanced on one knee. âDouble pancakes tomorrow.â
Her eyes snap open instantly.
âDefine double,â she says, deadly serious.
âStacked,â he replies solemnly. âSyrup situation negotiable.â
She sits up immediately, resolve restored. âI forgive you.â
Lando shakes his head, laughing. âSheâs so easy to bribe.â
âKnow your motivators,â Louise says, already pulling her legs back into a stretch like nothing happened. âThatâs sports science.â
John makes another note on his clipboard, smiling to himself as the sun finally crests the horizon, lighting the track gold.
Pre-season, after all, is about learning.
Even if some lessons involve running. And others, pancakes.
âž»
A few days later, Louise goes with Lando to Woking.
The sky is the particular shade of English grey that feels like a held breathâneither threatening nor kind, just there. The McLaren Technology Centre rises out of it like something deliberate and quiet, all glass and water and controlled intention.
Itâs her first time there since leaving the drivers development programme.
But this time feels different.
Last time she came through these doors, sheâd been a prospect. Smiles had lingered a second too long then. Conversations had adjusted themselves around her.
Now, she arrives like a driver.
And a Champion.
Black jacket zipped to her chin, tailored and unflashy. Hair braided tight down her back, not for style but for function. Her face is calm in that specific way that usually precedes chaosâeyes steady, posture relaxed, mind clearly ten steps ahead of the room.
Lando walks beside her, hands in his pockets, moving through the corridors with the ease of someone whoâs memorized the rhythm of the place. Heâs done this walk a thousand times, but today it carries a different weight. Not heavier. Just⊠shared.
People glance.
Register.
Then move on.
No double takes. No whispers. Just the subtle recalibration of understanding.
This is how they keep it clean.
They pass through the open atrium, the hum of quiet productivity everywhereâengineers moving with purpose, screens glowing with simulations, the faint echo of footsteps on polished floors. Louise takes it in without gawking. She never gawks. She observes, catalogs, files away.
At Zakâs office door, Lando slows.
He turns slightly toward her, voice light but eyes searching. âYou sure you donât want backup?â
She looks up at him, one eyebrow arching, lips twitching. âPlease. Iâve been terrifying men in glass offices since I was nineteen.â
He laughs, the sound easy and fond. Steps back, hands up in surrender. âGo get him.â
She taps the door onceâfirm, politeâand steps inside without waiting.
âž»
Zak Brown is already smiling.
Not the polished, camera-ready smile. Not the careful PR version.
This is the smile of a man who knows heâs about to lose something and has accepted it with grace and mild dread.
âLouise,â he says, standing as she enters. âWorld Champion. To what do I owe the pleasure?â
She doesnât sit right away.
âIâm here to collect,â she says simply.
Zak exhales and drops back into his chair, already defeated. âI knew it.â
She finally sits, folding her hands in her lap. Calm. Composed. Deadly.
âBefore you start,â he adds, holding up a finger like it might save him, âI already posted the picture with the clown nose.â
She smiles. Sweet. Almost innocent.
âThat wasnât the only bet we had going on.â
Zak closes his eyes.
âThe other bet,â she continues gently, like sheâs reminding him of a dinner reservation. âSilverstone. Dinner.â
One eye opens. âThe championship one.â
âYes.â
âI was really hoping,â he says slowly, âthat youâd forget that one.â
She tilts her head, studying him. âZak. I donât forget bets. I build entire life arcs around them.â
He rubs his face, dragging his hand down like this might physically erase the moment. âYouâre relentless.â
âYou made it open-ended,â she reminds him. âWhenever you want.â
âAnd you wantââ
âLe Mans,â she says immediately.
The word lands and stays there.
Silence stretches, thick and real.
The office hums faintly with air conditioning. Somewhere down the hall, someone laughs. A door opens and closes. The world continues, blissfully unaware that a new trajectory has just been spoken aloud.
Zak studies her now.
Not as a headline.
Not as a wildcard.
But as an athlete who knows exactly what sheâs asking forâand what it will cost.
âThatâs not a marketing stunt,â he says carefully. âThatâs a program.â
âI know.â
âTesting. Endurance prep. Strategy.â
âI know.â
âDifferent kind of pressure.â
âI know.â
He leans back, fingers steepled, gaze sharp. âWhy now?â
Louise doesnât answer right away.
She looks past him, toward the window. The overcast English sky presses low and familiar, the same sky she learned under, failed under, rebuilt herself under.
âBecause,â she says finally, voice steady, âI donât want to wait until Iâm done with Formula One to find out what else I can do.â
Something shifts.
Just a fractionâbut itâs there.
Zakâs expression softens, the executive calculation giving way to something closer to respect.
âAnd Indy?â he asks, carefully neutral.
She smiles, small but unmistakable. âOne dream at a time.â
He laughs despite himself, shaking his head. âYouâre unbelievable.â
âYet,â she replies, standing smoothly, âhere we are.â
Another pause.
Then Zak reaches for his tablet, tapping once, then again. The sound is decisive.
âAlright,â he says. âIâll enter an extra car. Proper team. No shortcuts. Youâll earn every mile.â
For half a secondâjust halfâher breath catches.
Then she nods.
âThank you,â she says. No victory lap. No dramatics. Just real.
He points at her as she stands up. âThis does not mean you get to show up and rewrite my entire motorsport philosophy.â
She slips her arms into the sleeves, already halfway gone. âWe'll see about that.â
âž»
Lando is leaning against the wall outside, scrolling aimlessly through his phone, pretending not to be listening.
He looks up the moment the door opens.
âWell?â he asks, casual but not fooling anyone.
She stops in front of him.
Lets the moment breathe.
âIâm racing Le Mans.â
He blinks.
Once.
Then his face splits into the biggest, proudest grin sheâs ever seen on him.
âYouâre joking.â
âI never joke about bets.â
He laughs, breathless, disbelieving, joy spilling out of him. He pulls her into a quick, instinctive hugâarms tight, groundingâthen remembers where they are and steps back just as fast, cheeks warm.
âThatâs insane,â he says softly. âYouâre insane.â
She nods, entirely unbothered. âYou love that.â
âI do,â he admits without hesitation. âGod, I really do.â
They start walking down the corridor together, not touching now but perfectly aligned, footsteps in sync. The future hums between themâbusy, demanding, alive.
Another dream unlocked.
Another door opened.
And neither of them pretending, even for a second, that this is the end of the story.
If anythingâ
It feels like the middle.
âž»
The plane hums the way Louise likes itâsteady, obedient, unbothered by altitude or expectation.
Thereâs something about the sound that calms her. Not silence, not noise. Precision. A low, even vibration that says everything is doing exactly what it was designed to do.
Her private jet cuts through the early morning sky, pale gold bleeding into blue as the sun rises behind them. The cabin lights are dimmed, the world outside still half-asleep. Louise pads barefoot across the soft carpet, hoodie slung loosely over her shoulders, sleeves pushed up. Her hair is tied back with the same black elastic sheâs owned for yearsâstretched, reliable, unglamorous.
Sheâs curled into one of the seats now, tablet balanced on her knee, scrolling through timing data thatâs already been sent ahead. Sector simulations. Tire curves. Long-run averages. Her thumb moves absently, muscle memory as much as thought.
Across from her, Lando sits sprawled out in a way only someone deeply comfortable can manageâlong legs stretched, one socked foot hooked around the base of the seat opposite. His laptop is open, some graph frozen mid-scroll, clearly abandoned. Heâs been watching her for a while now.
âRemind me,â he mutters, rubbing at his eyes, âwhy pre-season testing is always at an hour that suggests punishment?â
She doesnât look up. âCharacter building.â
âI have plenty of character.â
She flicks the screen. âDebatable.â
He scoffs softly. âYouâre smiling like thatâs illegal.â
âIâm not smiling.â
âYou are,â he insists. âThat one. The tiny one. The âIâm about to ruin someoneâs dayâ smile.â
She finally glances up at him, eyes bright, unapologetic. âI havenât even driven yet.â
âThatâs worse,â he says, laughing. âThat means youâre enjoying the anticipation.â
She shrugs lightly. âI like Bahrain.â
âYou like proving people wrong.â
âThat too.â
He grins, completely unbothered, leaning his head back against the seat. This is the version of her he knows bestâthe one that gets quieter the closer she gets to impact. Not tense. Not nervous. Just⊠sharpened. Like a blade held just out of sight.
When the plane begins its descent, the subtle change in pressure tugging gently at the cabin, she finally locks the tablet and sets it aside.
He notices immediately.
âHey,â he says softly, tone shifting without effort. âNo pressure today.â
She laughsâlight, sharp, real. âI know.â
They exchange a look that carries a thousand unspoken things.
They both know pressure has never scared her.
âž»
The noise comes back the moment she lands.
Not literallyânot yetâbut the digital hum of it. The ever-present buzz that waits patiently, then swarms.
Louise settles into a seat in hospitality later that morning, Bahrain heat already pressing in through the open spaces of the paddock. Her phone rests loosely in her hand. Sheâs not seeking distraction.
She doesnât go looking for it.
It finds her anyway.
WORLD CHAMPION STEPS BACK â DOES SHE STILL WANT IT?
IS THIS THE BEGINNING OF THE END?
PART-TIME DRIVER, PART-TIME COMMITMENT?
She exhales through her nose, something between a sigh and a scoff.
Same story. Different font.
She doesnât bother responding. Doesnât forward it. Doesnât even mention it to Lando. Sheâs learned which noises deserve oxygen.
Jos finds her that afternoon, leaning against a barrier just off the main paddock flow. The heat clings to everythingâskin, fabric, metalâlike a second layer. Heâs wearing his usual expression: unreadable, blunt energy coiled beneath it.
âGot a minute?â he asks.
She nods, slipping her phone into her pocket and following him a few steps away from the engineers and cameras. Far enough that voices blur. Close enough that the track still hums underfoot.
He doesnât waste time.
âThey think youâre stepping down because youâre scared,â he says flatly.
She doesnât flinch. âI know.â
âThey think you donât want it enough.â
She shrugs, rolling her shoulders. âThat oneâs boring.â
Jos watches her for a long moment, eyes sharp, weighing tone as much as words.
âYou do things sideways,â he says finally. âIt confuses people.â
âI donât like straight lines,â she replies easily. âTheyâre predictable.â
The corner of his mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, but close enough to count.
âYouâre not running,â he says. Not a question.
âNo.â
âYouâre not soft.â
She snorts. âAbsolutely not.â
He nods once. âGood.â
They stand there in companionable silence, the sound of engines warming in the distance, a mechanical growl that vibrates in her chest. Familiar. Comforting.
âYouâll shut them up,â Jos adds. âOne way or another.â
Louise turns her gaze toward the track. Sunlight glints off the asphalt, off the barriers, off the possibility humming just under her skin.
âI always do,â she says quietly.
âž»
The Aston Martin garage is already alive when she arrives.
Heat. Movement. Purpose.
The air smells like rubber and fuel and focus. Engineers move with practiced efficiency, headsets on, hands busy. Screens flicker with data, numbers constantly recalculating.
Louise slips into the space without ceremony. She pulls on her balaclava, then her helmet, the world narrowing instantlyâsound muffled, vision tunneled, breath suddenly loud in her ears.
The car rolls out.
The track opens.
And thenâ
She flies.
The sensation hits immediately. That click. That yes. The car talks to her through the steering wheel, through the seat, through the way the chassis loads under braking. She listens. Answers back.
Sector one: purple.
Sector two: purple.
Sector three: purple.
Again.
And again.
Engineers glance at each other. Eyebrows lift. Someone taps a screen, then another, as if the numbers might change if questioned hard enough.
âSheâs not easing in,â someone mutters, half-awed, half-amused.
Louise doesnât hear it.
Sheâs too busy being exactly where she belongs.
Lap after lap, she carves the track with a precision that borders on casual. No overdriving. No drama. No show. Just devastatingly clean pace, consistent and confident.
The screens donât lie.
Neither does her body.
Back in the garage, she pulls off her helmet, sweat-damp hair sticking to her temples. Her cheeks are flushed, eyes bright. She reaches for water as murmurs ripple around herâquiet, impressed, recalibrating.
The comments fade.
The doubts dissolve.
You donât argue with purple sectors.
âž»
Jos finds her later, leaning against a barrier with a towel draped around her neck, eyes still tracking the timing screens out of habit more than necessity.
He doesnât smile. He never does right away.
âThat shut them up,â he says.
She shrugs lightly. âTheyâll find something else.â
âThey always do.â He pauses. âBut not today.â
She meets his gaze. âI didnât step down.â
That earns him a small smile. Barely there. Meaningful anyway.
âYou drive like someone whoâs made peace with her choices,â he adds.
Louise thinks of early mornings and late nights. Of planes that hum just right. Of calendars that no longer feel like cages. Of loving something without letting it consume everything else.
âI do,â she says.
Jos nods once, satisfied. âGood.â
He turns to leave, then stops.
âThatâs dangerous.â
She smiles to herself as she watches him go.
Good.
âž»
Adrian Neweyâs call comes just after lunch.
No buildup. No assistant running interference. No grand preface.
Just a quiet office, glass walls muted by smart tinting, and the soft, constant whirr of air conditioning doing its best to keep the desert at bay.
Louise sits opposite him, posture relaxed but attentive, hands folded loosely in her lap. Sheâs learned that Adrian doesnât waste words. When he asks for time, itâs because something already matters.
âFernando got injured during the break. Recovery is slower than expected,â he says, voice even, precise. âHeâll miss the season opener.â
She doesnât react. Not outwardly. Just a small shift of focus, like a camera lens tightening.
âI see,â she says.
âWe need continuity,â he continues, fingers interlaced on the table. âSomeone who understands the car. The team. The expectations.â
A pause.
He looks at her directly nowânot as a champion, not as a solution, but as a known quantity.
âIâd like you to step in.â
The world doesnât stop.
But it sharpens.
The room feels smaller somehow. Cleaner. Every sound more definedâthe hum of the air conditioning, the distant echo of footsteps in the corridor, the faint buzz of her phone on the table beside her.
She doesnât answer immediately.
Instead, she reaches for her phone, thumb already moving before thought fully catches up. Her calendar blooms openâcolor-coded blocks layered with intention. Racing weekends. Testing. Training. Commitments stacked like a puzzle sheâs spent years learning how to solve.
She moves one thing.
Then another.
A training session slides. A media obligation disappears. A rest day reshapes itself into travel.
The picture shifts, but it holds.
She looks up.
âYes,â she says.
Simple. Certain.
Adrian nods once, already unsurprised. âI thought youâd say that.â
Thereâs no congratulation. No speech. Just understanding passing cleanly between them.
âBriefings start tonight,â he adds. âYouâll have full support.â
âI expect nothing less,â she replies, standing.
As she leaves the office, the weight settlesânot heavy, not frightening. Familiar. Purposeful.
This is what readiness feels like.
âž»
She FaceTimes Lando from the hotel balcony as the sun sinks into the desert, painting the sky in deep oranges and bruised purples. The air is warm even now, carrying the distant hum of traffic and the low thrum of generators from the paddock.
He answers immediately.
Hair damp. Team kit half-zipped. A towel slung over one shoulder.
âHey, superstar,â he says, smiling.
She exhales, the adrenaline of the day finally loosening its grip. âFernandoâs out of the opener.â
His smile fades into focus. âOkay.â
âAnd Adrian asked me to fill in.â
A beat.
Then his mouth curves back up, softer this time. Knowing.
âYou said yes.â
She smiles, leaning her forearms against the railing. âOf course I did.â
He laughs, a breathy sound that carries pride and relief in equal measure. âOf course you did.â
For a moment they just look at each other through the screen, two different hotels, two different teams, the same gravity.
âThey can keep talking,â she says quietly, gaze drifting back toward the horizon. âIâm still here.â
He nods, expression steady. âTheyâll catch up.â
The last light slips below the skyline. The desert cools. The season stretches out in front of herâwide, demanding, alive.
Not smaller.
Just clearer.
And this time, she doesnât need to explain herself at all.
Summary: Some truths only surface when everything else goes quiet. As rain taps against the windows and the rest of the world falls away, a question turns into a conversation neither of them has had beforeâand neither wants to leave unfinished.
Word Count: 1.6k
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It happens late.
Not dramatic-late. Not confession-by-candlelight late. Just that soft hour where the house exhales and the world outside dims enough that thoughts stop competing with noise.
The kitchen is half-lit. One lamp on near the sink, its glow warm and amber, catching on the edges of clean mugs and the grain of the wooden counter. The overhead lights stay off on principle. Rain taps gently against the open window, not loud enough to intrudeâjust present, like breathing.
The place smells faintly of chamomile and something green from the garden carried in on the damp air.
Lando leans against the counter, barefoot, one hip cocked, phone in hand. Heâs scrolling absently, thumb moving on autopilot, eyes glazed in the way of someone who is very much not reading a single word. His shoulders are loose. Hoodie soft with wear. The tension of the day long gone.
Louise sits on the island across from him, legs folded beneath her, posture easy but alert. She twists the ring on her fingerâhabitual, unconscious. Itâs one she always forgets sheâs wearing until moments like this.
They talk about nothing for a while.
A comment about a terrible movie recommendation. The neighborâs cat that has once again declared their garden its personal kingdom. Whether rain at night feels louder or quieter.
Small things. Safe things.
Then she goes still.
Not sharply. Not in a way that demands attention. Just a pause where her hands stop moving and the air around her seems to hold.
âCan I ask you something?â she says.
Lando looks up immediately. Phone forgotten. âAlways.â
She studies him for a second longer than necessaryânot testing him, not bracing. Measuring something quieter. His steadiness. His openness. His safety.
âWere you ever scared of me?â she asks.
The words land gently. No accusation. No edge.
He blinks once. âScared how?â
She inhales slowly, choosing the shape of the truth.
âNot⊠me-me,â she clarifies. âBut my family-name me. Public-figure me. Big networth me.â
A small, crooked smile tugs at her mouth, but it doesnât quite reach her eyes.
âThe version of me that walks into a room before I do.â
Silence stretches between themânot awkward, not tense. Thoughtful.
Lando sets his phone down on the counter and slides it away, like it doesnât deserve to witness this conversation. He steps closer, resting his hip against the island, close enough that his knees slot naturally between hers.
âYes,â he says.
No cushioning. No hesitation.
Her breath catchesânot sharply, but enough that he notices. Always does.
His voice softens immediately. âBut not in the way you think.â
She nods once. âTell me.â
He considers his wordsânot because heâs searching for the truth, but because he respects it enough to say it carefully.
âI wasnât scared youâd hurt me,â he says. âOr that youâd use it. Or that youâd be⊠bigger than me.â
He lifts his hand, pausesâalways giving her spaceâthen tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
âI was scared of the noise.â
She frowns faintly. âNoise?â
âEverything that comes with it,â he explains. âPeople deciding things for you before you do. Headlines filling in blanks that donât exist. Expectations following you into rooms you didnât invite them into.â
He exhales, slow.
âI was scared Iâd never know which parts of you I was allowed to want.â
That lands somewhere deep and quiet.
Her shoulders drop a fraction.
âI didnât want to fall for something I wasnât actually touching,â he continues. âI didnât want to confuse the legend for the girl.â
Her throat tightens. âAnd?â
âAnd then,â he says softly, âI met you, really met you. And you made it impossible.â
She lets out a small, surprised laugh. âThat sounds ominous.â
âIt was,â he grins, just for a second. Then the smile fades into something gentler. âYou kept showing up as yourself. Annoyingly normal. Bad at resting. Good at noticing things no one else does.â
He shrugs, almost sheepish.
âThe big name never spoke first,â he says. âYou did.â
She looks down at her hands, voice quieter now.
âSometimes I worry people donât realize theyâre choosing all of it when they choose me.â
He reaches up and lifts her chin, thumb warm against her skin, until she has no choice but to meet his eyes.
âLou,â he says gently. âI didnât choose all of it.â
Her body tenses for half a second.
âI chose you,â he finishes. âAnd then I decided I wasnât afraid of the rest.â
Her eyes shine, but she refuses to let the tears fall. She blinks them back, smiling despite herself.
âYou know,â she says softly, âmost people donât admit that part.â
âI know,â he replies. âBut you didnât ask most people.â
She laughs under her breath and leans forward, resting her forehead against his chest. His heartbeat is steady beneath her cheek.
âI was scared too,â she admits.
His eyebrows lift.
âOf me?â he asks, light enough to give her an out if she wants one.
Instead, Louise huffs a quiet laugh.
âA little.â
Lando looks genuinely startled by that.
âA little?â he repeats.
She nods.
âNot of you hurting me.â
âGood.â
âYou donât get points for meeting the minimum standard.â
âI think I deserve at least half a point.â
She rolls her eyes.
The smile that follows makes something in his chest loosen.
Then she looks down at her hands again.
âI kept wondering if I liked you or if I just liked having you around.â
His brow furrows.
âWhat?â
âYou were everywhere.â
The corner of her mouth lifts.
âCalls. Texts. Races. Random photos of things that reminded you of me.â
âYou make that sound criminal.â
âIt was relentless.â
âIâm hearing that you missed me.â
She points at him.
âDonât interrupt my vulnerability.â
He immediately mimes zipping his mouth shut.
Louise shakes her head, fighting a smile.
Then her expression grows thoughtful again.
âI worried I was confusing proximity with feelings.â
The admission comes quietly.
âWhen someone becomes part of your routine, itâs easy to mistake comfort for something bigger.â
Landoâs gaze never leaves her face.
âSo I kept checking.â
âChecking?â
âWhether Iâd still miss you if you werenât around all the time.â
His chest tightens.
âAnd?â
She looks up.
The answer is written all over her face before she says it.
âI missed you more.â
His arms come around her without hesitation, pulling her in like itâs instinct.
Then Louise hesitates.
Only for a second.
Long enough that Lando notices.
Thereâs another piece.
A more embarrassing one.
âAaaand?â he prompts gently.
She groans immediately.
âYou know those videos that used to circulate?â
His grin grows.
âOh, this is going to be bad.â
âThe club videos.â
Lando physically winces.
âOh no.â
âThe yacht videos.â
âStop.â
âThe party videos.â
âPlease stop.â
She laughs for the first time in minutes.
Properly laughs.
His face disappears into his hands.
Louise shakes her head.
âItâs silly now, but every once in a while one of those clips would end up on my algorithm.â
âThose algorithms are evil.â
âThey really are.â
He groans.
âWas it the one where I was dancing on a table?â
âThere were multiple table incidents.â
âDamn it.â
She laughs again.
The sound fills the kitchen.
âIâd see them and thinkâŠâ She hesitates, searching for the right words. âMaybe weâre looking for completely different things.â
The humor fades from his expression.
Not because heâs offended.
Because he understands.
âYou thought I was still living like that.â
âA little.â
She shrugs.
âI knew it wasnât the whole picture.â
Her voice stays careful.
Fair.
âI knew social media only catches fragments.â
Lando nods.
âBut?â
âBut the fragments werenât exactly helping your case.â
He groans dramatically and drops his head onto her shoulder.
âI just remember thinkingâŠâ Her voice softens. âHeâs fun. Heâs kind. Heâs smart.â
Landoâs grin returns.
âKeep going.â
âAnd heâs possibly incapable of spending a Saturday night at home.â
His laugh vibrates against her shoulder.
âOkay, thatâs fair.â
She smiles.
âI wasnât judging you.â
âI know.â
âI just didnât think someone who seemed to run toward every party would want the same things I did.â
Lando lifts his head.
Looks at her.
Really looks at her.
The woman sitting in oversized pajamas in a quiet kitchen at midnight.
The woman who loves horses and early mornings and reading in silence.
The woman who worries deeply about everything she cares about.
The woman who built a home with him.
âI probably didnât know I wanted those things yet.â
He rubs his thumb across her knuckles.
âWhen people talk about who I used to be, theyâre usually trying to prove I havenât changed.â
His voice is calm.
âBut the truth is⊠I have.â
She watches him carefully.
âI liked going out.â
âPast tense?â
âI still like going out.â
She laughs.
âThank God. I was worried youâd become boring.â
âImpossible.â
âAgreed.â
His smile softens.
âBut I think I spent a lot of years looking for a feeling.â
The rain outside grows slightly heavier.
Not enough to interrupt.
Just enough to underline the moment.
âAnd then?â she asks quietly.
Lando looks around the kitchen.
At the warm lamp.
The rain-speckled window.
The mugs drying beside the sink.
Then back at her.
âAnd then I felt it. With you.â
She smiles, breath hitching, and presses a kiss into the fabric of his hoodie.
They stay like that for a long moment.
No cameras. No expectations. No weight pressing in from the outside world.
Just two people in a quiet kitchen, brave enough to ask the questions that matterâand answer them honestly.
Eventually, she pulls back.
âThank you for telling me the truth.â
He smiles, easy and real. âAnytime.â
She kisses him thenânot rushed, not heavy. Just certain.
And for once, their names doesnât enter the room at all.
Summary: What begins as a practical discussion about schedules, distance, and making time for each other slowly turns into something neither of them can quite ignore: the possibility of building a life in the spaces between race weekends.
Word Count: 6.6k
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Theyâve learned how to miss each other without letting it rot.
Itâs not instinctive. Itâs practiced.
It shows in the small choices: voice notes instead of rushed calls when time zones donât line up, messages that say no rush and mean it, silences that donât feel like tests. They let the gaps exist without filling them with panic.
Louise sends mornings.
Cold ones. Honest ones.
A photo of frost clinging to stable fences, pale and brittle in the early light. Her helmet perched on a tack trunk, gloves draped over it like an afterthought. A rifle case leaning against a concrete wall, precise and quiet, accompanied by a single caption:
early. calm. good.
Lando replies later, always later, from somewhere louder.
Sunsets bleeding orange over hotel balconies. The view from a runâblurred pavement, long shadows. The inside of the simulator room at midnight, lights low, steering wheel glowing like a cockpit altar.
still here. thinking of you.
They donât narrate their loneliness.
They donât pretend it isnât there.
They let it be a shared thing, not a weapon.
So when Monaco finally alignsâone of those rare windows where neither is being pulled in five directions at onceâthey meet without ceremony.
No airport sprints.
No dramatic countdowns.
No social media breadcrumb trail.
â
Louise arrives first.
She lets herself settle before he gets thereâshower steam still clinging to the air, hair damp, hoodie stolen from his closet because it smells like him. She pads barefoot onto the balcony, the city stretched below like something decorative rather than demanding. The air is soft. Forgiving.
When the door opens behind her, she doesnât jump.
She turns at the sound instinctively.
âHey,â she says, smile immediate, unguarded.
âHey,â he answersâand the word lands like an exhale he didnât realize heâd been holding all week.
They close the distance without thinking.
The kiss happens right awayâunhurried, familiar, necessary. Not to prove anything. Just to check.
Still here.
Still us.
They rest their foreheads together when they pull back, breathing each other in like confirming something vital hasnât changed.
âYou look tired,â he murmurs, thumb brushing her jaw.
âSo do you,â she replies.
They smile. The kind that doesnât try to hide it.
They end up on the couchâlegs tangled, plates abandoned on the coffee table, something half-watched paused and forgotten. The city hums outside, muted by height and glass. Monaco feels distant from itself tonight.
Louise shifts, picking at the seam of the cushion.
âWe should talk,â she says.
Lando doesnât stiffen. Doesnât brace.
âYeah,â he says easily. âOkay.â
She takes a breathânot nervous, just deliberate.
âI donât want us to wake up one day and realize weâve been surviving logistics instead of choosing each other.â
He turns fully toward her, attention absolute. âOkay.â
âI need structure,â she continues, steadier now. âNot because I want distance. Because when things get chaotic, structure keeps me from disappearing into everything else.â
He nods slowly, absorbing it rather than solving it. âThat makes sense.â
She looks at him then. Really looks.
âAnd you,â she says softly. âYou donât need access to me all the time. You need⊠grounding. Consistency. Something that doesnât feel like it might vanish if you blink.â
He lets out a quiet breath, half-laugh, half-admission. âYeah. Thatâs exactly it.â
They sit with that. Let it breathe.
âI donât want to become another thing you have to manage,â he adds after a moment. âAnd I donât want to hold onto you too tightly just to stay connected.â
She reaches for his hand, fingers sliding into his like itâs always been this easy. âGrounding isnât control.â
âAnd structure isnât distance,â he answers, just as softly.
The words settle between themânot dramatic, not heavy. Agreed upon. Chosen.
âI donât want to meet in the middle because we have to,â Louise says. âI want to because we want to.â
Something shifts then.
Not relief.
Not certainty.
Commitment.
Lando leans in, pressing his forehead to hers. âOkay.â
She smilesâsmall, real, unguarded. âOkay.â
They just sit there, hands linked, bodies angled toward each other, letting the shape of it exist without pressure.
â
Louise sits cross-legged on the floor, iPad balanced on her knee, stylus tucked behind her ear like she might need it to defend herself. The calendars have migrated from the table to the rugâpaper ones, shared digital ones, a few scribbled notes that look suspiciously like contingency plans. Somewhere behind it all, her Yoto player hums quietly, a soft instrumental looping like itâs trying to keep the peace.
Lando leans against the counter, hoodie sleeves shoved up, phone in hand. Heâs been scrolling through the same email for a while nowânot reading so much as absorbing the weight of it.
âOkay,â he says finally, looking up. âSay it again. Slowly. Like Iâm bad at listening.â
She smiles faintly, fond rather than amused. âIâm not racing the full calendar.â
âI heard that part.â
âIâll do only sprint race weekendsâthereâs eight this year, Thanks to the Formula 1 team who keeps pushing for more and more races.â she continues. âI'll obviously do the usual pre-season stuff. Development tests. Simulator work. The restââ
âHorses,â he supplies automatically.
âAnd shooting,â she nods. âWorld Cups. Europeans. Olympic qualifiers. Itâs⊠a lot.â
He exhales, not frustrated. Just recalibratingâlike adjusting brake bias mid-lap. He pushes off the counter and crouches so heâs closer to her level, forearms resting loosely on his knees.
âOkay,â he says. âLetâs talk about race weeks. Because those rules kept us sane last year.â
Louise nods immediately. No resistance. âThey still stand.â
âNo seeing each other in person,â he says, counting on his fingers. âNo surprise drop-ins. No âI was nearbyâ nonsense.â
âTexts,â she adds. âVoice notes whenever. FaceTime at night if we can.â
âAnd if we canât,â he finishes, âwe donât spiral about it.â
She hesitatesâjust a fraction too long.
He notices. Of course he does.
âHey,â he says gently, but firm. âLook at me.â
She lifts her gaze.
âThis worked,â he says. âWe didnât feel less connected. We felt⊠protected.â
She swallows. âI know. I justâsometimes it feels like distance looks like disinterest from the outside.â
He snorts softly. âGood thing weâre not dating the outside.â
Then, quieter. âWeâre dating each other.â
That earns him a real smileâthe kind that loosens something behind her ribs.
âAnd,â she adds, softer still, âI checked with Charlotte. If I planed it right, I should be free every off-week you have from racing.â
His eyebrows lift. âActually free?â
âAs inâno competitions, no camps, no media,â she confirms. âJust⊠us. Wherever we are.â
Something in his shoulders drops, tension he didnât realize he was carrying.
âOkay,â he murmurs. âThat helps.â
Theyâve lived inside chaos long enough that silence feels louder than screaming engines.
He breaks it first. âStill, itâll be different.â
âYes.â
Different isnât a word either of them fears anymoreâbut they respect it. Theyâve learned that pretending change wonât matter is how it sneaks up and bites.
Louise closes her iPad and sets it aside. Looks up at him fully.
âI donât want us to pretend it wonât change things.â
âI donât want us to pretend anything,â he replies immediately.
Thatâs the thing about them. No games. No careful half-truths. They burned through that version of themselves when everything still felt temporaryâwhen futures were theoretical.
This isnât.
âI donât want to lose the rhythm we built,â she says quietly. âI like knowing where we are. Even when youâre not with me.â
He steps closer, resting a hip against the counter, hands loose at his sides. âYou wonât. Youâll just know where we are more⊠metaphorically.â
She laughs under her breath. âThatâs the worst answer you couldâve given.â
âI know,â he grins. âBut you love me anyway.â
She does. Itâs not fireworks all the time anymore. Itâs gravity. The kind that keeps pulling them back into alignment no matter how far they drift.
âž»
Theyâve gotten good at logistics.
Maybe too good.
McLaren debriefs. Aston meetings. Her training blocksâdressage mornings, eventing afternoons, range sessions that carve out whole days. Itâs all there, color-coded and merciless.
They stand in front of it together now, mugs in hand, steam curling up between them.
âWe could keep bouncing,â Lando says. âHotels, bases, wherever.â
Louise tilts her head. âOrâŠâ
She pulls up a map on her phone and turns it toward him.
Aylesbury.
Sitting there quietly. Unassuming. Almost smug in its practicality.
âSilverstoneâs an hour,â she says. âWokingâs an hour. Fields. Space. Somewhere quiet enough to disappear when we need to.â
He studies the screen for a long moment.
âAre you suggesting,â he asks carefully, âthat we choose the least dramatic solution possible?â
âYes.â
He blinks. âI donât know if Iâm emotionally prepared for that.â
She snorts, leaning into his side. âYouâll survive.â
He wraps an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close, both of them staring at the little dot on the map like itâs not just a locationâbut an idea.
â
Louise is on her feet now, marker in hand, already halfway down the rabbit hole.
Dates are circled. Others crossed out. Arrows point to side notes, which point to new arrows. Thereâs a whole corner of the whiteboard thatâs just question marks and contingency language written smaller and tighter, like sheâs afraid of taking up too much space with uncertainty.
âIf Iâm in Europe here,â she says quickly, pacing as she writes, âand youâre here, then theoretically Aylesbury makes sense, but Monaco is closer ifââ
âBug.â
Not sharp. Not loud.
Just enough.
She freezes mid-sentence, marker hovering in the air. Her breath is shallow now, eyes snapping back to the board like itâs a problem sheâs failing in real time.
Lando steps closer and gently places his hand over hers, stilling the marker before she can add another arrow.
âYouâre spiraling,â he says calmly.
She huffs, tension flaring. âIâm being efficient.â
âYouâre being anxious.â
She opens her mouth to argueâhas a dozen logical rebuttals already queuedâ
He tilts his head, voice dropping just slightly. âPause.â
Her shoulders sink at the sound. Reflexive. Familiar. Like her nervous system recognizes his tone before her brain does.
âBreathe,â he adds. âWith me.â
She does. Once. Itâs shaky.
Twice. Better.
Her grip on the marker loosens.
âThere you go,â he says quietly. âYou donât have to solve the whole year right now.â
Something in her chest unclenches. Her eyes soften, guilt flickering in. âSorry.â
âDonât apologize,â he says immediately. âJust come back.â
She steps into him, resting her forehead against his chest for a brief secondâgrounding herself in the steady rise and fall, the proof that not everything needs fixing to be okay.
âOkay,â she says, pulling back. âSo. Simple version.â
He nods, approving.
âAylesbury when we both have obligations in England,â she says. âWhen itâs about routine. Rest. Normal.â
âAnd Monaco,â he adds, easy now, âwhen itâs about sun, recovery, or pretending weâre mysterious Europeans.â
She laughs, real this time.
âAnd we donât force either,â he continues. âIf one of us needs space, or to stay closer to work, we say it.â
âNo scorekeeping,â she agrees.
âNo silent resentment,â he adds.
They seal it with a kissâbrief, solemn, and slightly ridiculous, like theyâre ratifying a treaty neither of them intends to break.
âž»
Louiseâs phone buzzes from the sofa.
She glances at the screen and groans. âSpeak of the devil.â
Charlotte: Iâm sending you listings. Donât argue. Just look.
One message.
Then another.
Then a third.
Links. Photos. Floor plans.
Louise hands the phone to Lando like it might bite her. âSheâs terrifying.â
âSheâs efficient,â he corrects, already scrolling. âWhich is worse.â
They end up sitting on the floor side by side, backs against the couch, knees touching, the whiteboard abandoned behind them like a solved problem. The kettle hums in the background, forgotten.
âThis oneâs too modern,â Louise says, peering at the screen.
âThis one looks haunted,â Lando replies.
âThis one has good light.â
âThis one has a weird amount of sinks.â
They stop on the same listing at the same time.
A quiet house. Big windows. Fields stretching out behind it. Nothing flashy. Nothing that screams look at me. Just space. Air. The suggestion of mornings without alarms.
Louise glances at him. âI like this one.â
He studies it for a moment longer, then nods. âMe too.â
Not because itâs perfect.
But because it feels intentional.
A choice theyâre making togetherânot out of pressure or panic, not as a compromise, but as a direction.
Lando reaches for her hand and squeezes once, grounding and sure.
âThis,â he says, steady as anything, âis worth protecting.â
Louise smiles, leaning into his shoulder, letting herself believe it.
âIt is,â she says.
The planning winds down the way it always does with themânot abruptly, not announced. Just a gradual easing, like a tide pulling back once itâs done reshaping the shore.
The mugs sit empty on the counter. Charlotteâs listings are bookmarked and closed with ceremonial restraint. Outside, Monaco hums into eveningâengines echoing faintly somewhere below, laughter drifting up from the street, the city already shrugging into its night skin.
Louise leans back against the counter, arms folded loosely, watching Lando scroll through his phone without really seeing it. His thumb moves out of habit more than intent.
She hesitates.
Then, quieter than all the decisions theyâve just made:
âHey.â
He looks up immediately. No delay. âYeah?â
âCan we⊠go to the club?â She shrugs, suddenly shy in a way that always catches him off guard. âTo the room. Justâwatch for a bit.â
Understanding clicks into place instantly. His mouth curves into a soft smile. No teasing. No questions.
âYeah,â he says easily. âLetâs disappear.â
âž»
The club room is quiet in the way libraries are quietâintentional, insulated. Thick walls. Soft lighting. The kind of hush that makes you lower your voice without thinking.
Louise steps inside and pauses.
At the center table sits a familiar, heavy book.
Her face lights up. âOhâI forgot about this!â
Lando chuckles as she crosses the room, already reaching for it. âYou say that like you didnât organize it by tabs.â
She ignores him, lifting the oversized encyclopedia with both arms and settling onto the couch with it, flipping pages until she finds a familiar one.
âHere,â she murmurs, pleased. âThis is where I stopped.â
He sits beside her, then shifts, tugging her gently into his lap so she ends up sideways against him, the book open where they can both see. One arm wraps around her waist automatically. The other braces the edge of the couch.
She fits there like she always does. Like the space was made for her.
She flips through pages slowly, occasionally nudging him with her elbow.
âHave you tried this one?â she asks, tapping the margin.
He glances, thinking. âOnce. It was⊠fine. Very athletic.â
She hums, filing that away.
A few pages later, she stillsânot frozen, just thoughtful. He notices immediately.
âYou donât like that one,â he says quietly.
She tilts her head, considering. âIt looks weird. I mean, the footnote says it allows for deeper⊠connection,â she says carefully, then wrinkles her nose. âBut I donât like how detached it looks.â
âDetached how?â
âI like being able to see you,â she says simply. âOr feel you close. That one feels like⊠not that.â
His arm tightens around her just a little. âNoted.â
She turns another page, more relaxed now. Sometimes she asks questions out of pure curiosity. Sometimes sheâs clearly storing information for later. Other times she skips whole sections without comment, and he doesnât push.
Theyâre not studying.
Theyâre learning each other.
At one point she leans back against him, head tipping to his shoulder. âYouâre very patient about this.â
He smiles against her hair. âYouâre very thorough.â
She laughs softly, flipping one last page before closing the book with a decisive thump.
âOkay,â she says. âThatâs enough education for tonight.â
âShame,â he murmurs. âI was just getting my degree.â
She twists to look at him, eyes warm, a little mischievous. âYou can continue your studies later.â
âPromise?â
She smiles and leans in, kissing himâslow, unhurried, like thereâs nowhere else to be.
Outside, Monaco keeps humming.
Inside the quiet room theyâve chosen, they stay tucked awayâcurious, close, and entirely un-rushed.
Later, back at his place, when night settles and Monaco glows, he carries her to bed like itâs the most natural thing in the world.
She curls into him instinctively, knees tucked, breath evening out.
âThis feels⊠right,â she murmurs, already half asleep.
He kisses her hair. âYeah.â
Outside, the city keeps moving.
Inside, they choose a rhythm that belongs to them.
Not distance.
Just a shape theyâre building together.
âž»
They visit the place on a cold Sunday morningâthe kind that smells like frost and damp earth and quiet decisions.
The sky is low and pale, the light diffused enough to make everything feel gentler than it probably is. The road narrows the closer they get, hedges drawing in tight like theyâre whispering secrets to each other. Louise turns the radio down without thinking, volume fading to nothing as if sound itself might disturb whateverâs waiting ahead.
âItâs very⊠polite,â Lando says, peering through the windscreen.
âThatâs British for ânon-threatening,ââ she replies, eyes on the lane ahead.
They park on a gravel patch that crunches loudly underfoot, the noise too sharp for how still everything else is. The air smells clean and cold. The stone path curves toward the front door, softened by moss that looks like itâs been winning a long, patient battle. The house doesnât loom. It doesnât perform. It just⊠exists.
The windows are wide and old-fashioned, slightly unevenâthe kind that suggest sunsets matter here. That light will linger. That evenings might stretch.
Louise pauses before the door.
She always does this. With horses. With cars. With people. A moment of listening before committingâlike the world might tell her something if sheâs quiet enough.
Lando waits. Doesnât rush her.
âWell?â he asks softly.
She smiles, slow and certain. âI think it wants us.â
â
Inside, the house breathes.
Thatâs the only way Louise can describe it.
The door closes behind them with a solid, comforting sound. The floors creakânot loudly, not in protestâmore like curiosity. The walls donât reflect light so much as hold it, softening the edges of the morning. Thereâs a faint scent of wood and something floral thatâs long since stopped trying to be identifiable.
Lando wanders ahead, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, eyes moving methodicallyâmeasuring space the way he does race data. Practical. Analytical. Already mapping furniture, storage, Louise's escape routes.
Louise drifts.
Her fingers trail along doorframes, the banister, the cool plaster of the walls. She presses her palm flat against one spot near the stairs and lingers, like sheâs listening for an echo only she can hear.
âYou good?â he asks, glancing back.
âYeah,â she murmurs. âIt feels⊠patient.â
He raises an eyebrow. âThatâs a new requirement.â
They head upstairs.
One room has slanted ceilings and soft light pouring in through a skylight. Dust motes float lazily, unbothered by their presence, like theyâve accepted this is where they live now.
âThis could be your office,â Lando says, nodding toward it. âQuiet. Out of the way.â
Louise steps inside, turns slowly, imagining silence that doesnât feel lonely. âI like it.â
She crosses the hall to another room with a wide window that looks out over fields rolling on foreverâno fences in sight, just soft lines and winter grass.
âAnd this,â she says lightly, âcould be yours.â
He stops short.
Stares.
âWhy do you get the better view?â he asks, scandalized.
She tilts her head, all innocence. âBecause Iâm nicer.â
âYou are objectively not.â
âI bring snacks.â
He exhales. ââŠFair.â
They keep exploring.
A spare room that already feels like it wants laughter and clutter and maybe someone crashing on the couch. A bathroom with ridiculous water pressure that Lando tests immediately, standing under the tap like itâs a scientific experiment.
âThis matters,â he insists.
Louise laughs from the doorway. âOf course it does.â
Back downstairs, they end up in the kitchen without planning to. Sunlight spills across the counters, pale and clean. The room feels open without being exposed. Thereâs space hereânot just square footage, but pause. The kind that invites mornings that donât start with alarms.
Lando leans back against the counter, arms folding loosely. âSay we do this.â
Louise hums, noncommittal but listening.
âThis is⊠real,â he continues. âNot metaphor real. Likeâreal real.â
She steps closer, resting her forehead against his chest, grounding herself in the steady rhythm of him. âItâs been real.â
âYeah,â he murmurs, fingers threading into her hair automatically. âBut this is the kind of real where you buy bins together.â
She laughs into his hoodie. âWe already argue about bins.â
âThatâs because you refuse to label them.â
âThey know what they are.â
âThey absolutely do not.â
The laugh lingers between them before fading into something quieter.
Something more serious.
Landoâs hand slows in her hair.
âCan I be honest?â
Louise lifts her head enough to look at him. âThat question usually means youâre already being honest.â
His mouth twitches.
âRight.â
He glances away, toward the empty kitchen surrounding them. Toward the sunlight spilling through windows that werenât theirs yet.
âPart of me is excited.â
âOnly part?â
âA large part.â
âBetter.â
âBut part of me is terrified.â
The admission settles heavily between them.
Louise doesnât look surprised.
âMe too,â she says softly.
Lando lets out a breath.
âGood.â
She blinks.
âGood?â
âNot good that youâre terrified.â He points at her. âDonât twist my words.â
âIâm considering it.â
âI mean good because if you werenât terrified Iâd think you were insane.â
That earns a small laugh.
Because she understands exactly what he means.
This isnât deciding to spend more nights together.
This isnât leaving clothes at each otherâs places.
This isnât even moving in.
This is mortgages and paperwork and solicitors and contracts.
This is choosing a future and putting money behind it.
Louise reaches for his hand.
âOkay.â
âOkay?â
âLetâs talk about the terrifying part.â
Lando groans immediately.
âI knew youâd say that.â
âYou brought it up.â
âI was hoping youâd tell me not to worry.â
âNot happening.â
He sighs dramatically.
âFine.â
Louise squeezes his fingers.
âWhat are you actually scared of?â
He thinks for a second.
Not the easy answer.
Not the joke.
The real one.
âWhat if we mess it up?â
Her expression softens.
âMess up the house?â
âNo.â His thumb brushes over hers. âUs.â
The words hang there.
Raw and unguarded.
âWhat if everythingâs great now because weâre us and then suddenly weâre the couple arguing about utility bills and whose turn it is to call a plumber?â
Louise smiles faintly.
âWe already argue about whose turn it is to call people.â
âExactly.â
âIâm usually right.â
âSee? Thatâs exactly the attitude.â
She laughs.
But after a moment she says quietly, âYou know thatâs not what youâre actually asking.â
His shoulders loosen.
Because she knows him.
Too well.
âWhat am I asking?â
âWhat if we break up.â
The room goes still.
Lando doesnât answer immediately.
Because yes.
That is exactly what heâs asking.
Eventually he nods.
âA little.â
Louise studies him.
Not offended.
Not hurt.
Just thoughtful.
âIâve thought about it too.â
Something in his chest eases immediately.
Not because she shares the fear.
Because she admits it.
Because sheâs willing to talk about it.
âWhat conclusion did you reach?â he asks.
She shrugs lightly.
âThat if weâre buying a house together while actively planning our breakup, we probably shouldnât buy a house together.â
He lets out a startled laugh.
âFair.â
âIâm serious.â
âI know.â
Louise shifts closer.
âIf we break up one day, weâd figure it out.â
âThatâs not very reassuring.â
âIt isnât supposed to be.â
Her hands slide into the pocket of his hoodie.
âItâs realistic.â
Lando looks down at her.
Louise meets his gaze steadily.
âI canât promise weâll be together forever.â
His chest tightens.
Then she continues.
âBut I can promise that Iâm choosing this because I want a future with you. Not because Iâm trying to protect myself from every possible outcome.â
The silence that follows feels strangely warm.
Like sunlight.
Like home.
Lando stares at her for a long second.
Then longer.
âYouâre annoyingly mature sometimes.â
âI know.â
âI hate it.â
âNo you donât.â
âNo, I donât.â
His forehead drops against hers.
The house around them remains quiet.
Waiting.
âWhat about you?â she asks softly.
âWhat about me?â
âWhy are you really considering this?â
Lando smiles.
Small.
Private.
Because the answer comes easily.
Easier than he expected.
âI like coming home to you.â
Louiseâs expression immediately melts.
âThatâs such a simple answer.â
âItâs the truth.â
He shrugs.
âI spend half my life in airports. Hotels. Rental cars. Different countries every week.â
His hand settles at her waist.
âIâve lived in nice places.â
The corner of his mouth lifts.
âReally nice places.â
She rolls her eyes.
âSubtle.â
âBut youâre the first person whoâs ever made a place feel important.â
The teasing vanishes from her face.
Completely.
And suddenly neither of them are joking anymore.
âI donât care about the house,â he admits.
âI mean, I care.â
âYou absolutely care.â
âThe kitchenâs incredible.â
âIt is.â
âBut if you werenât here, itâd just be a house.â
Louise swallows.
Hard.
âOkay.â
âOkay?â
She nods.
A smile growing despite herself.
âThat was annoyingly romantic.â
âThank you.â
âThat wasnât a compliment.â
âIt absolutely was.â
She shakes her head, laughing.
Then reaches for his hand again.
âSo.â
Lando looks around the empty room.
The bare walls.
The sunlight.
The future quietly waiting for them to decide.
âSo.â
Louise squeezes his fingers.
âWe are both aware this is a huge step.â
âMassive.â
âWe are both slightly terrified.â
âExtremely.â
âWe have considered worst-case scenarios.â
âWeâve acknowledged them.â
âAnd despite all thatâŠâ
Lando looks at her.
Really looks at her.
The woman standing in the middle of a house neither of them owns yet and somehow already filling it with life.
ââŠI still want to do it.â
Louise smiles.
The kind that starts small and grows.
âSo do I.â
They stand there for a moment longer, quiet and smiling, the house holding them without comment.
They buy the place.
âž»
The house changes.
Not immediately. Not dramatically. But steadilyâlike itâs stretching into itself, preparing.
After they leave that first time, the rooms sit in silence. Sunlight slides across bare floors in long, patient lines. Dust settles without anyone to disturb it. The garden waits, winter-still, roots holding fast beneath the soil.
It doesnât feel abandoned.
It feels paused.
Then the vans arrive.
Lando doesnât even mention it to Louise at first. He just sends a message from an airport lounge somewhere between obligations, the kind of place that smells like coffee and carpet cleaner and mild exhaustion.
I sent a crew.
Donât panic.
She reads it twice, narrowing her eyes.
Louise:
A crew for what.
The typing dots appear. Disappear. Reappear.
Lando:
Everything that shouldnât break when weâre tired.
Thatâs when she knows arguing will be pointless.
Electricians first. Then plumbing. Internet lines pulled and reinforced until the signal hums instead of flickers. Heating and cooling systems adjusted so they donât argue with the weather. Water pressure tested until it behaves exactly the way Lando insists it should.
The house doesnât become flashy.
It becomes reliable.
Lights come on without hesitation. Wi-Fi doesnât crash when itâs needed most. Radiators sigh warmly, like theyâre relieved to finally be useful.
Louise stands in the kitchen during one of the video walkthroughs, phone propped against a mug, watching someone test sockets with methodical care.
Her chest tightensânot with overwhelm, but with something softer.
Louise:
You didnât have toâ
The reply comes immediately, like heâd been waiting.
Lando:
I wanted to.
She doesnât argue. She just sends a heart and lets that be enough.
â
The design problem comes later.
Louise is sitting on the floor of her parentsâ place, back against Behatiâs legs, laptop balanced precariously on a cushion. The room smells like coffee and something sweet baking. Her mum scrolls through samples with a focus thatâs both terrifying and deeply comforting.
âWe want it low-profile,â Louise explains. âNothing Instagram-ready.â
Behati hums approvingly. âGood. Those houses age badly.â
Louise exhales, relieved to be understood without explanation. âI donât want it to feel like a base. Or a hotel. Orââ
âA compromise,â Behati finishes gently.
Louise nods, throat tight.
They find someone perfect. Quiet. Discreet. Someone who listens more than they talk and asks questions like how do you rest? instead of whatâs your aesthetic? Someone who watches Louise pace while thinking and doesnât interrupt.
Louise forwards everything to Lando.
Mood boards. Fabric swatches. Notes scribbled in the margins like this feels like morning and this feels like after a bad race and this might be too much when weâre tired.
His replies come between meetings, between flights, between worlds.
Unexpectedly precise.
Lando:
No sharp edges.
Couch needs to survive naps.
Whatever that lamp is, I hate it.
She laughs out loud, alone on the couch, startling the dog.
âž»
They brainstorm together in fragments.
Screenshots sent at odd hours. Voice notes recorded half-asleep, voices softer than usual.
Louise sends photos of muted greens, soft woods, imperfect ceramics with hairline cracks that look intentional rather than fragile.
Lando sends diagrams.
Actual diagrams.
Louise:
Why are there arrows.
Lando:
Traffic flow.
Louise:
Itâs a living room.
Lando:
Exactly.
They canât agree on the layout.
Two options.
One favors opennessâlight, long sightlines, space to breathe, nowhere for thoughts to get trapped.
The other is cozierâsegmented, layered, rooms that feel held, corners that invite you to stop moving.
They go back and forth for days.
âThis one,â Louise insists during a FaceTime call, pointing at her screen. âIt feels calmer.â
âThis one,â Lando counters, hair damp, hoodie slung low. âIt makes sense.â
âThey both make sense.â
âOnly one works.â
âAccording to who?â
âPhysics.â
They stare at each other through the screen, both stubborn, both tired, both refusing to give groundânot because it doesnât matter.
Because it does.
Finally, Louise texts Charlotte.
Louise:
Emergency.
The response is instant.
Charlotte:
Iâve been waiting for this.
An hour later, a single message arrives with an annotated screenshot, arrows and notes layered with surgical precision.
Charlotte:
Youâre both wrong.
Charlotte:
Combine them. Open where you wake up. Closed where you rest. Stop fighting and eat something.
Thereâs a long pause.
Then:
Lando:
âŠSheâs right.
Louise:
Sheâs annoyingly right.
Charlotte:
I always am.
âž»
The house settles.
Furniture arrives quietly, piece by piece. Art goes up slowly, chosen more for how it feels than how it looks. Nothing screams. Nothing performs.
A couch deep enough to disappear into. A table that already looks like itâs hosted conversations. Lamps that soften evenings instead of spotlighting them.
By the time they stand in the doorway together again weeks later, bags at their feet, the place doesnât feel staged.
It feels habitedâeven before they fully are.
Louise sets her keys down on the counter like itâs always been hers to do. Lando drops his coat on the hook, pauses, adjusts it until it sits just right.
They look at each other, something quiet and steady passing between them.
âWe did this,â she says softly.
âTogether,â he agrees.
And for the first time, the house doesnât feel like a plan.
It feels like a beginning that knows how to wait.
âž»
Moving in is a mess.
Not the cinematic kind. The real kind.
Cardboard everywhere. Half-written labels. A permanent smell of tape and dust. Boxes stacked in precarious towers marked SIM STUFF, HORSE STUFF, TROPHIES??, and one ominous one that just says DO NOT LOSE in Louiseâs handwriting.
Lando opens it anyway.
âWhy are there three passports in here.â
âClose it,â Louise says immediately. âThat box is not emotionally safe.â
He obeys.
Ten minutes later, he opens the cutlery drawer and freezes.
ââŠWhy is there a shooting glove next to the forks.â
Louise, cross-legged on the floor surrounded by pantry items, doesnât even look up. âThatâs on you. You unpacked the kitchen.â
âI didnât place it with intent.â
âYou absolutely did. That glove chose violence.â
She stands, wanders over, opens her riding helmetâ
And stares.
A bright orange McLaren stress ball stares back at her.
She lifts it slowly. Turns.
âYou hid this.â
âI did not hide it,â Lando says, defensive. âI stored it.â
âIn my helmet.â
âFor safekeeping.â
She throws it at his chest.
They donât fight about it.
They laugh. They move things. They forget where they put things again. They accept that chaos is the entry price.
âž»
Louise takes control of the fridge.
Itâs surgical.
Meal-planned containers stacked with precision. Color-coded lids. Labels written neatly in Sharpie.
MONâTRAINING
TUEâRECOVERY
DONâT TOUCH (SERIOUS)
Lando opens it, squints.
ââŠAre we feeding a small army.â
âNo,â she says calmly. âWe are feeding future-us.â
He closes it slowly.
âFuture-me is scared.â
â
He drives them to the market anyway.
Itâs small. Local. Slightly chaotic in the way only places that know their regulars can be.
They buy fruit.
Then more fruit.
Then cheese they donât recognize.
Then snacks. So many snacks.
âThis one,â Lando says, holding up a bag of something aggressively neon, âlooks illegal.â
âThat means itâs good,â Louise replies.
They come home with bags cutting into their fingers and no memory of what they actually planned to get.
âž»
Evenings settle into something quiet.
Not empty. Not heavy. Just⊠lived in.
Sometimes they sit on opposite ends of the couch, legs tangled, both scrolling, not speaking.
Sometimes Louise does her range exercises on the floor while Lando watches old onboard footage, muttering under his breath.
Some mornings, he leaves before dawn.
He kisses her temple while sheâs half-asleep, whispers, âText me when you wake up.â
She always does.
Some nights, she comes home smelling like hay and cold air, cheeks flushed, hair a mess.
She collapses onto the couch mid-race replay and he shifts automatically so her head fits against his shoulder.
No discussion. No pause.
Different rhythms.
Same song.
âž»
The first night that feels like home sneaks up on them.
Itâs not special.
Theyâve eaten something stored in cardboard. The house is quiet except for the hum of heating that works.
Louise is in pajamas she didnât plan to wear. Lando is barefoot, hoodie abandoned somewhere.
Theyâre brushing their teeth side by side.
She catches his reflection.
âYou okay?â she asks.
He nods. âYeah. Just⊠here.â
She leans into him, forehead against his shoulder.
This isnât a stopover.
This isnât borrowed time.
This is where socks get lost and reappear in weird places. Where mugs get claimed without discussion. Where silence doesnât ask to be filled.
They crawl into bed without ceremony.
Lando reaches for her automatically. She fits.
As she drifts off, half-smiling, Louise thinksânot with panic, not with aweâ
This is where domesticity begins.
And for once, the thought doesnât scare her.
It steadies her.
âž»
The house teaches itself to them slowly.
Not all at once. Not in some grand moment where they stand in the middle of a room and suddenly know.
In pieces.
In sunlight.
In habit.
The kitchen gets the morning light first.
Not aggressively. Not enough to wake them.
Just enough that around seven-thirty the edges of the countertops turn gold, and the mugs drying beside the sink cast long shadows across the wood.
The first time Louise notices, sheâs making tea while Lando sleeps upstairs.
She stands there longer than necessary, mug warming her hands, watching dust motes drift through the light.
The next morning she notices it again.
By the third, sheâs texting him a photo when heâs already at the factory.
Kitchen light is doing the thing again.
His reply comes almost immediately.
Our kitchen.
The message makes her smile for the rest of the day.
â
The upstairs bathroom becomes their favorite room by accident.
The window sits at exactly the right angle.
On cold mornings, when the fields behind the house disappear beneath silver mist, they stand shoulder-to-shoulder brushing their teeth and watch the world wake up.
Dew gathers across the grass.
The horses in the neighboring field appear first as shapes, then outlines, then animals.
Sometimes neither of them speaks.
The silence feels complete.
One morning Louise presses her hand against the cold glass.
âLook at that.â
Lando glances up from rinsing his toothbrush.
The field sparkles beneath the rising sun.
Thousands of tiny droplets catching light.
âThatâs ridiculous,â he says.
âWhat is?â
âHow pretty grass is.â
She laughs.
âYouâre getting soft.â
âLiving with you is ruining my reputation.â
He says it with enough affection that she leans over and bumps her shoulder against his.
â
They learn the sounds too.
The floorboard at the top of the stairs that always creaks.
The click the heating makes before it starts.
The way rain sounds against the back windows compared to the roof above their bedroom.
The front door settles differently depending on the weather.
The house expands when itâs warm.
Contracts when itâs cold.
Breathes around them.
At some point they stop noticing the noises because theyâve become part of the rhythm.
At some point they start noticing when theyâre missing.
â
Lando claims a corner of the couch without ever officially claiming it.
It simply happens.
One evening Louise walks into the living room and finds him sitting there.
The next evening heâs there again.
Then again.
Soon enough, thatâs where he ends up whenever heâs reading, gaming, watching footage, answering messages, or pretending not to fall asleep.
His corner.
His blanket.
His charger permanently draped over the armrest.
Louise makes fun of him for becoming territorial.
Then she realizes she always chooses the same armchair by the window.
The one where afternoon sunlight pools across the cushion.
The one where she can read.
Or stretch.
Or simply sit and watch the fields.
They stop pretending the spots arenât theirs.
â
Sometimes they walk through the house for no reason.
Not consciously.
Just moving.
Louise heading downstairs for water.
Lando wandering into the kitchen because he forgot why heâd stood up in the first place.
They cross paths in hallways.
Pause.
Exchange absent-minded kisses.
Continue in opposite directions.
The familiarity sneaks up on them.
The knowledge that they know where the other person is without looking.
The certainty that if Louise walks into a room, Lando will probably appear five minutes later.
Not because theyâre attached at the hip.
Because their lives naturally orbit the same spaces now.
â
One evening they lose power during a storm.
Nothing dramatic.
Just darkness.
The hum of appliances disappearing all at once.
For a moment they stand in the kitchen staring at each other.
Then Louise starts laughing.
Lando finds candles.
The rain drums against the windows.
The entire house glows gold and flickering.
And as they move from room to room lighting small circles of warmth, Louise realizes something.
The house still feels like theirs.
Even without the lights.
Even stripped down to shadows and candle flames and the sound of rain.
Maybe especially then.
âž»
One evening, they sit on the back steps watching the sky soften into purple.
Louise stretches her legs out, boots muddy, shoulders loose in a way they only are when sheâs been riding all day.
âI used to think choosing something meant losing everything else,â she says.
Lando hands her a drink. âYou still think that?â
âNo,â she replies. âI think choosing everything just takes longer.â
He considers that.
âI like that youâre not trying to be one thing,â he says. âIt makes me feel less insane for wanting⊠more.â
She nudges him with her foot. âYouâre already insane.â
âTrue,â he smiles. âBut Iâm also⊠settled. In a way I didnât know I wanted.â
She looks at him then. Really looks.
Same boy who once lived out of suitcases and adrenaline.
Now talking about bins and back gardens and halfway points.
âI donât need you to slow down for me,â she says.
âIâm not,â he replies. âIâm just choosing where I stand still.â
Summary: Louiseâs iPad dies. Lando immediately enters crisis-management mode. One of those situations is significantly more dramatic than the other.
Word Count: 900-ish
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It doesnât happen during a dramatic moment.
No crash. No rain. No last-lap chaos.
It happens in the most offensive way possibleâquietly, disrespectfully, in the middle of a perfectly ordinary afternoon.
Louise is sitting cross-legged on the floor of Landoâs living room, her back against the couch, iPad balanced on her knees, Apple Pencil between her fingers. Sheâs mid-flowâhalf watching a telemetry replay, half annotating something that looks like a cross between race notes, a to-do list, and a constellation map only she understands.
The screen goes black.
She taps it.
Nothing.
She taps again. Harder. Then softer. Then with the Pencil. Then with her knuckle.
The screen stays black.
Louise blinks once.
âHm.â
Lando looks over from the kitchen. âHm what?â
She presses the power button. Holds it. Counts under her breath. Lets go.
Nothing.
She plugs it in. Unplugs it. Switches chargers. Switches outlets. Tilts it like gravity might jog something loose.
Still nothing.
Her breathing changesânot panicked yet, just⊠recalibrating.
âLando,â she says calmly. Too calmly. âMy iPad is not responding to external stimuli.â
He freezes. That tone is dangerous.
âYou mean itâs dead?â
âNo,â she says immediately. âDead implies temporary inconvenience. This feels⊠existential.â
He walks over slowly, kneels in front of her. âOkay. Let me see.â
She hands it over like sheâs passing him something fragile and sacred. Like an injured bird. Like a limb.
He tries the basics. Power button. Charger. Restart combo he half remembers.
Nothing.
Louiseâs eyes donât leave the device.
âThat has my life in it,â she says quietly.
Lando looks up. âYour life life orââ
âMy schedules. My notes. My race debriefs. My brain dump documents. My playlists organized by emotional state. My comfort shows. My PDFs. My lists of lists. Myââ
She stops. Swallows.
âMy safe place.â
Thatâs when it hits him.
Not the inconvenience. Not the money. Not the replacement.
The loss.
â
Louise doesnât cry. She doesnât yell. She doesnât pace.
She goes very still.
Sits there, hands folded in her lap, staring at the unlit screen like if she looks away itâll be gone for good.
Lando sets the iPad gently on the table.
âHey,â he says, softer now. âWeâll fix it. Or replace it. Orââ
âI know,â she interrupts. âLogically, I know. But that one knew me.â
He exhales through his nose. Sits down beside her.
âYou backed it up, right?â he asks gently.
She nods. âYes. Mostly. I think. Ninety-three percent.â
âThatâs really good.â
âExcept the seven percent that is the part I was actively using to stay functional today.â
Of course it is.
She rubs her thumbs together. A tell.
Lando watches closely.
âDo you want space or do you want me annoying?â he asks.
She thinks. âAnnoying. But quiet annoying.â
He bumps her shoulder lightly. âI can do that.â
â
Within twenty minutes, Lando is in full crisis-support mode.
He makes her tea the exact way she likesâtoo much honey, barely hot. He dims the lights without being asked. He pulls her weighted blanket from the chair and drapes it over her shoulders like itâs the most natural thing in the world.
She barely reacts. Just lets it happen.
He sits on the floor with her and opens his laptop.
âOkay,â he says. âTalk to me. What did the iPad do for you that we can temporarily replace?â
She blinks. Processes.
âOrganization. Regulation. Distraction. Reference. Control.â
âGreat,â he nods. âNo pressure.â
She almost smiles.
They rebuild a temporary Louise system from scratch.
Notes app on his laptop, labeled exactly how she likes. A shared document she dictates to him. Spotify playlists queued. A random cartoon playing silently in the background just so thereâs movement.
Itâs not the same.
But itâs something.
At some point, she notices sheâs breathing normally again.
â
The next day, they take the iPad to get looked at.
The technician pokes it. Frowns. Shakes his head slowly.
Louise braces.
âItâs the motherboard,â he says. âLooks like a clean failure. No warning signs.â
Louise nods like she expected this. Like sheâs been preparing emotionally since the first tap.
âSo,â she asks quietly. âIt wonât wake up?â
The technician hesitates. âNo. But your data should be recoverable if it was backed up.â
She closes her eyes for exactly three seconds.
âOkay,â she says. âThen we say thank you and goodbye.â
Lando squeezes her hand.
Outside, he asks, âYou alright?â
She shrugs. âI feel like someone erased a whiteboard I was still using.â
âThatâs a very you way to describe grief for electronics.â
She snorts despite herself.
â
They buy a new one.
Same model. Same size. Same color.
It feels wrong in her hands.
Too clean. Too empty.
She sets it up slowly. Methodically. Recreates folders. Imports backups. Rebuilds systems.
Lando watches from the couch, quiet, respectful.
At one point she pauses, Pencil hovering.
âDo you think itâs silly,â she asks, âto miss an object?â
He doesnât hesitate.
âNo,â he says. âI think itâs silly people pretend objects donât hold meaning.â
She nods. Goes back to work.
Later that night, she names the new iPad.
Not the same name as the old one.
A different one.
A fresh start.
â
A week later, Lando catches her, fully immersed, new iPad covered in fingerprints and notes and stickers already.
âHowâs the new brain?â he asks.
She looks up. Considers.
âItâs learning me,â she says. âWeâre negotiating.â
He grins. âGood luck at it.â
She reaches out without looking and hooks a finger into his hoodie pocket, grounding herself.
He lets her.
Some things break.
Some things get rebuilt.
And some thingsâlike knowing exactly who will sit on the floor with you while your world rebootsâturn out to be more permanent than any screen.
Summary: Four days with no schedules, no cameras, and nowhere they have to be. For once, Lando gets to trade race weekends for lazy mornings, terrible sandcastle architecture, and a golf match he takes far too seriously. But as their little bubble starts running out of time, the conversation theyâve both been avoiding finally catches up to them.
Warnings and Notes: non-explicit SMUT
Word Count: 5k
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The pocket Charlotte carved out for them feels unreal.
Not like a vacation. Not like a break earned or a luxury getaway booked. It feels closer to a loopholeâsomething they slipped through unnoticed while the rest of the world kept spinning at its usual, merciless speed.
Four days.
No cameras angled just slightly too high. No handlers hovering with clipboards and polite urgency. No schedules taped to walls or buzzing phones dictating when they are needed and where.
Just a bungalow set far enough from the main path that the ocean is louder than the resort at night.
Their villa sits apart from everything else, tucked behind pale stone walls softened by flowering vines that spill lazily over the edges, pink and white petals catching the sun. The kind of place where staff appear quietly when summoned and disappear just as easily, where meals arrive without commentary and no one asks questions they donât need the answers to.
The curtains billow with the breeze, sheer and unbothered. Salt hangs in the air. Somewhere beyond the gate, the world existsâbusy, expectant, relentlessâbut it doesnât intrude unless invited.
They donât invite it.
The first morning arrives without ceremony.
No alarm cuts through sleep. No vibration from a phone on the bedside table. Light filters in slowly, warming the room in increments, brushing across bare walls and tangled sheets.
Louise wakes curled into Landoâs side, one leg thrown over his like sheâs anchoring him to the bed by sheer will. Her forehead rests just below his collarbone, hair sprawled messily across his chest. She blinks awake in stages, awareness coming gently, the way it never does at home.
For a moment, she stays still.
Listens.
The ocean breathes beyond the wallsâsteady, rhythmic, patient. A bird calls somewhere nearby. The fan hums softly overhead.
She shifts, barely perceptible.
Landoâs arm tightens immediately, muscle memory kicking in before consciousness does. His hand slides across her back, fingers flexing like heâs checking sheâs still there.
âStay,â he murmurs, voice rough, still buried in sleep.
Louise smiles into his skin. âI wasnât leaving.â
âGood,â he says, already fading again.
She lets herself settle, nestling closer, the simple act of being held without urgency loosening something in her chest she hadnât realized was clenched.
Eventually, hunger wins.
Breakfast arrives quietly, delivered with a knock so gentle it feels optional. Fruit arranged artfully she immediately disrupts, pastries still warm, something flaky and sugared that leaves crumbs on the sheets despite her best intentions.
Louise eats sitting cross-legged in bed, sunlight painting her knees gold. Lando leans back against the headboard beside her, scrolling lazily through the menu for later like itâs the most critical decision of the day.
âWe could do lunch at the beach,â he says.
She hums noncommittally, mouth full.
âOr in the room,â he adds quickly.
She swallows. âYou just want to avoid full length pants.â
âIâve earned that right.â
She steals a strawberry from his plate and drops back against the pillows, already warm and pleasantly drowsy. The kind of tired that feels earned in the best wayânot from exhaustion, but from rest.
â
Later, the sun climbs higher.
Louise drops onto a lounger by the room sliding doors, towel already warm besides her, sunglasses pushed up into her hair. She closes her eyes, stretching out like a cat whoâs found the perfect spot.
Lando appears at her side with sunscreen, bottle in hand, expression focused in a way that feels absurdly reverent.
âYou burn if I blink wrong,â he says, kneeling beside her.
âIâm resilient,â she argues weakly, already half-asleep again.
âYou are flammable.â
She huffs a quiet laugh just as his hands touch her shoulders.
The sunscreen is cool at first, then quickly warms under his palms. He spreads it carefully, unhurried, like heâs mapping something familiar. Thumbs sweep along the line of her shoulder blades, slow and deliberate, drifting just enough to make her aware of every place he doesnât touch.
His hands linger.
Not accidentally.
Not quite intentionally either.
She hums before she realizes sheâs doing itâa soft, content sound that slips out of her like a secret. His hands pause for half a second, then resume, just a fraction slower.
âRelax,â he murmurs, though she already is.
When he finishes, she reaches back lazily, fingers brushing his wrist as she gropes for the bottle. Barely looking. Barely thinking.
He catches her hand.
Gentle. Certain.
âNope.â
Her eyes open halfway. âWhat?â
âIf you start,â he says lightly, leaning closer, close enough that she can feel the warmth of him, his voice dropping just enough to feel intentional, âwe wonât leave this bedroom any time soon.â
Her laugh comes out softer than she expects, breathier too. Her cheeks warm, and this time it has nothing to do with the sun.
âYouâre the one who making it weird,â she says, tilting her head to look at him.
He smilesâslow, knowing, unrepentant. âI'm being responsible.â
She arches a brow. âDangerous lie.â
âIâm the one protecting the schedule,â he says solemnly.
âThere is no schedule.â
âExactly.â
They wander outside , sun already high and unapologetic, the air warm enough that the sea looks like an invitation rather than a challenge. The beach is quiet in that exclusive, tucked-away wayâno crowds, no shouting, just the low hush of waves and the occasional gull circling like it has nowhere urgent to be.
Louise kicks her sandals off and doesnât stop walking.
The water is cool at her ankles, then her calves, then sheâs laughing because Lando yelps behind her, hopping like heâs been personally betrayed by the temperature.
âItâs cold,â he says accusingly.
She turns, already waist-deep. âItâs refreshing.â
âYouâre lying.â
She grins and splashes him before he can finish the sentence.
Thatâs it. Thatâs the point of no return.
Theyâre in the water not long after, chasing each other through the shallows, splashing wildly, forgettingâgenuinely forgettingâthat they are adults with carefully managed public images and careers built on control. Lando lunges; Louise shrieks and ducks under, disappearing just long enough to make him panic.
âLouâ!â
She resurfaces behind him, arms sliding around his waist, cheek pressed between his shoulder blades.
He yelps, flailing, nearly losing his footing. âThat was unfair!â
âAllâs fair,â she says, already letting go, already swimming away as fast as she can.
He goes after her immediately, water spraying everywhere, laughter echoing off the rocks. He catches her by the wrist, spins her once, both of them breathless and grinning, before a wave knocks them off balance and they end up half-submerged, tangled and laughing so hard it hurts.
They float there for a moment, foreheads nearly touching, salt water slick on their skin, sun bright overhead.
âRematch later,â he says solemnly.
âObviously.â
They dry off on their towels, hair still dripping, skin warm and buzzing. Eventually, they migrate back toward the sand, where Louise drops down cross-legged with the kind of intent that usually precedes chaos.
âWe should build something,â she decides.
Lando squints at the shoreline, then nods like this is a serious proposal. âOkay. But we do it properly.â
She scoops sand into a bucket. âDefine properly.â
âStructural integrity,â he says, already digging trenches like an engineer confronted with a personal challenge. âFoundations matter.â
She watches him for a second, amused, then starts adding towers to the sides of his carefully planned walls. Tall, impractical ones. Arches that serve no purpose. Little decorative ridges just because.
He notices immediately. âWhat is that?â
âCharacter,â she says serenely.
âItâs going to collapse.â
âItâs expressive.â
He groans but doesnât stop her, even when she adds a completely unnecessary spire to the top. They work like that for a whileâhim reinforcing, her embellishing, both of them quietly delighted by the shared absurdity of it.
For a brief moment, the castle almost holds. Sunlight glints off wet sand. It looks ridiculous and earnest and entirely theirs.
Then the tide creeps in.
One wave takes out a wall. Another smooths over the towers. The sea reclaims everything without ceremony.
They sit back on their heels, watching it disappear.
Louise shrugs. âIt was temporary art.â
Lando leans back on his hands, smiling. âIt had great personality.â
â
Late afternoons, they do very littleâand it feels like an achievement.
The sun slants through the windows in long, honeyed bands, dust motes drifting lazily like they, too, are on holiday. The world outside hums at a polite distance. Inside, everything is soft.
Louise curls up on the couch, knees tucked in, hoodie swallowing her whole. Lando sits beside her with a book heâs been pretending to read for the last twenty minutes. She watches his eyes move across the page, the way his brow furrows when he gets absorbed, the small unconscious shifts of his posture.
Eventually, she leans into him. Then more. Until sheâs fully settled against his side, cheek pressed to his shoulder.
Sometimes she naps like that.
Other times, he doesâat some point the book slips from his fingers and his head ends up in her lap, heavy and warm. She barely notices when it happens. Her hands find his hair automatically, fingers combing through it in slow, absent passes. Itâs grounding in a way she doesnât quite have language for the simple truth of his weight, his breathing, the fact that heâs there.
If she stops, even for a second, he makes a small, protesting sound and shifts closer.
â
They never cook.
Not once.
Every meal is ordered in, eaten wherever they happen to landâcouch, bed, floor, balconyâcontainers scattered like evidence of a life very deliberately not optimized.
âI refuse to pretend weâre the kind of people who cook on vacation,â Louise declares one afternoon, scrolling through menus with absolute conviction.
Lando doesnât even look up. âWe work too hard to perform domesticity for fun.â
She snorts. âExactly.â
At night, they watch movies far too late. Old ones they half remember. Animated ones they insist are ironic and then get invested in anyway. Things neither of them are fully paying attention to, because they keep talking, or drifting, or getting distracted by each other.
Louise falls asleep halfway through more than once.
When she does, Lando notices immediatelyâthe way her breathing evens out, the way her head tips forward just slightly. He pauses the movie, carefully extracts himself, and lifts her like itâs nothing. Like this is simply how nights end.
She stirs just enough to curl into him, arms slipping around his neck.
âDid I lose?â she murmurs, voice thick with sleep.
âEvery time,â he says fondly, brushing a kiss into her hair.
She hums and tucks her face into his neck, already gone again.
â
One afternoon, though, she loses something properly.
One minute she was shaping a small mound of wet sand and the next Lando was informing her that her structural design was flawed.
âTerrible foundation.â
âYou donât know anything about sand towers.â
âI know enough to know thatâs going to collapse.â
âIt is not.â
âIt definitely is.â
Louise narrowed her eyes.
The challenge sat between them for barely three seconds before both of them reached the exact same conclusion.
âBet.â
Within minutes the rules were established.
Each of them would build the tallest freestanding sand tower they could manage before the tide reached them.
The winner got a prize.
Or, more accurately, the loser got punished.
âIf I win,â Louise said, holding out her hand to seal the agreement, âyou help me finish the puzzle.â
The smile disappeared from Landoâs face instantly.
Louise nearly laughed.
He sighed dramatically before finally taking her hand.
âFine. But if I win, youâre playing golf.â
Louise immediately recoiled.
âNo.â
âEighteen holes.â
âThatâs a full day.â
âItâs not.â
âIt feels like a full day.â
Landoâs grin returned.
Louise shook his hand before she could think too hard about it.
The competition began immediately.
At first it was mostly jokes. They worked side by side, gathering wet sand from the edge of the water and carrying it back. Louise, carefully packing each layer before adding the next. Lando, meanwhile, seemed incapable of doing anything simply.
By the time they finally stepped back to compare the finished towers, Louise was more convinced than ever that heâd somehow manipulated the outcome.
Louise groaned immediately.
âOh no.â
âOh yes.â
âNo.â
âOh yes.â
âYou cheated.â
Lando laughed.
A genuine laugh.
The kind that immediately made him look guilty.
âYou have literally no evidence.â
âBecause you hid the evidence.â
âThatâs not how evidence works.â
âYou know exactly what you did.â
His grin widened.
âOh, thatâs convenient.â
Louise folded her arms.
âYou did something.â
âI didnât.â
âYou absolutely did.â
âCan you prove it?â
There it was.
That sentence.
The exact sentence guilty people always used.
Louise pointed accusingly at him.
His laughter only got worse.
He threw both arms into the air like heâd just won a championship.
The celebration was so dramatic that he nearly lost his balance in the sand.
Louise laughed despite herself.
âYouâre ridiculous.â
Lando looked entirely too pleased with himself.
The ocean breeze tugged at his hair as he reached out and caught her hand, intertwining their fingers before she could pull away.
âYou know what this means.â
Louise sighed.
Long and suffering.
The golf course sat on the far side of the resort, rolling over green hills that disappeared into clusters of palm trees and sparkling water.
According to Louise, this was already a problem.
âItâs too far.â
Lando glanced at her from where he was steering the golf cart.
âItâs a three-minute ride.â
âItâs still too far.â
âYou walked more than this to breakfast.â
âBreakfast had pancakes.â
âThatâs your argument?â
âItâs a strong argument.â
The cart bounced gently over the path.
Louise sat with her legs crossed, sunglasses on despite the cloud cover, looking deeply inconvenienced by the existence of golf.
Lando had heard variations of the same complaint all morning.
The weather was too warm.
The clubs were too heavy.
The shorts heâd convinced her to wear had pockets that were âdecorative and therefore criminal.â
The complaints continued at the driving range.
Louise stood on the mat, club resting against her shoulder.
âI donât understand why people enjoy this.â
Crack.
The ball sailed perfectly downrange.
Lando blinked.
Louise frowned at the disappearing ball.
âSeems unnecessary.â
Crack.
Another beautiful shot.
Lando narrowed his eyes.
âYou realize youâre good at this.â
âI am not.â
Crack.
Straight down the middle again.
Several people in nearby stalls glanced over.
Louise ignored them.
Lando folded his arms.
âRight.â
âI mean it.â
âLou.â
âIâm serious.â
âLouise.â
âWhat?â
âYou just hit three consecutive perfect shots.â
She looked at the club.
Then at him.
Then shrugged.
âMaybe golf is easy.â
Lando barked out a laugh.
âNo.â
âIt felt easy.â
âBecause youâre annoyingly athletic.â
She gasped.
âWhat an odd thing to say.â
âItâs true.â
She grinned.
The grin alone told him she was enjoying herself.
Even if sheâd rather die than admit it.
The complaints continued at the first tee.
The complaints continued at the second.
And the third.
And the fourth.
At this point Lando was starting to admire her commitment.
âThis hole is stupid.â
âItâs literally a straight fairway.â
âThe vibes are bad.â
âThe vibes?â
âThe vibes.â
He wrote down both their scores on the scorecard.
Louise immediately leaned over.
âWhat did I get?â
âYou know what you got.â
âI want official confirmation.â
âYou got a five.â
She nodded.
âI blame the vibes.â
Lando laughed so hard he nearly dropped the pencil.
The thing was, Louise never stopped talking.
Not for long.
Most golfers approached their shots quietly.
Louise approached them with commentary.
At the sixth hole she complained about sand.
At the seventh she complained about grass.
At the eighth she complained about the shape of a tree.
âThe tree isnât doing anything.â
âItâs judging me.â
âThe tree.â
âYes.â
âIt doesnât even face this direction.â
âYou donât know that.â
Somehow she still made par.
Lando stared.
Louise handed him her club.
âWhat?â
âYou made par while arguing with a tree.â
âIt was distracting me.â
âApparently not enough.â
She smiled.
A small one.
Pleased despite herself.
By the back nine theyâd settled into a rhythm.
Lando drove the cart.
Louise stole his water.
Lando kept score.
Louise questioned every score.
âHow is that a six?â
âBecause you took six shots.â
âAllegedly.â
âI counted them.â
âYouâre biased.â
âI literally watched you.â
âYour methodology seems flawed.â
âLouise.â
âIâm just asking questions.â
He shook his head.
The scorecard had become almost as entertaining as the golf itself.
Every time he wrote something down she acted like sheâd discovered corruption at the highest level.
The resort looked beautiful in the afternoon sunlight.
The ocean glittered in the distance.
A warm breeze moved through the palms.
Golf carts hummed along distant paths.
Louise complained through all of it.
âI think my ball is cursed.â
âYour ball is fine.â
âItâs not.â
âIt is.â
âIt keeps ending up where I hit it.â
Lando nearly drove the cart off the path.
âWhat?â
âThatâs the problem.â
âYou want it to go somewhere else?â
âSometimes.â
He laughed until tears formed in the corners of his eyes.
Louise smiled despite herself.
That was becoming harder to hide.
By the final hole they were close.
Not tied.
Close.
Close enough that Louise had definitely noticed.
Close enough that Lando had started checking the scorecard more often than heâd admit.
The green overlooked the water.
The late afternoon sun painted everything gold.
Louise stood over her final putt.
âThis green is suspicious.â
âThe green is normal.â
âItâs slanted.â
âTheyâre all slanted.â
âIt feels personal.â
Lando rested against his putter.
Waiting.
Watching.
Smiling.
Louise lined up her shot.
Took a breath.
Hit it.
The ball rolled cleanly.
Perfect speed.
Perfect line.
Then somehow drifted just enough to miss.
Landoâs eyes narrowed immediately.
Because that wasnât a beginner miss.
That was a very specific miss.
Louise turned around.
Sweet as sunshine.
âWell.â
He stared.
She stared back.
The silence stretched.
Then her smile twitched.
Just slightly.
Enough.
âYou did that on purpose.â
âI donât know what youâre talking about.â
âLouise.â
âI tried my best.â
âYou absolutely did not.â
She looked scandalized.
âAre you accusing me of throwing a golf match?â
âYes.â
âThatâs outrageous.â
âYou literally smiled before the ball stopped moving.â
She finally laughed.
Caught.
Completely caught.
Lando shook his head, smiling despite himself.
He tucked the scorecard into his pocket and stepped closer.
âYou are impossible.â
âI hear that a lot.â
âMostly from me.â
âThatâs true.â
She beamed.
Lando leaned down and pressed a kiss against her temple.
Warm.
Easy.
Familiar.
Louise immediately leaned into his side.
âDo I at least get points for participation?â
âNo.â
âFor effort?â
âNo.â
âFor enduring golf?â
âYou enjoyed golf.â
âI enjoyed winning.â
âYou lost.â
She smiled up at him.
âDid I?â
Lando groaned.
Louise laughed all the way back to the resort while he drove the cart home, the scorecard safely in his pocket and her running commentary somehow louder than it had been when theyâd started.
That night, wrapped in sheets, grass scent still on their skin, the conversation turns quiet again.
Once the morning arrives, Louise notices the silence.
Not the absence of noiseâthereâs always wind, waves, distant laughter drifting up from somewhere belowâbut the absence of pull. No schedule tugging at her ribs. No clock ticking behind her eyes. No future moment sheâs already halfway leaning toward.
Just now.
She stays curled beneath the sheets for a while, letting herself enjoy it. The sunlight spilling through the open terrace doors paints shifting patterns across the room, warming the tangled bedding and the clothes abandoned carelessly the night before. The sea breeze carries the scent of salt and sunscreen and something flowering nearby.
Thatâs when she notices him.
Lando stands barefoot at the open doors, shirt discarded somewhere between the bed and the chair, hands resting lightly on the doorframe. The sea breeze lifts his hair, brushes across his shoulders.
Heâs doing absolutely nothing.
And somehow that feels remarkable.
For so much of the year, every second of his life belongs to someone. A team. A sponsor. A journalist. Fans. Family. Friends. Himself. Everyone taking tiny pieces until there is barely a moment left where he simply exists.
But right now, heâs just standing there watching the ocean.
âYouâre staring,â he says without turning, voice easy.
She hums, unashamed. âI missed this version of you.â
He glances back, one eyebrow lifting. âWhich one?â
âThe one that doesnât look like heâs about to be asked for something.â
He pushes away from the doorway and crosses the room with unhurried steps. The mattress shifts beneath his weight when he sits beside her. One of his hands settles against her waist, warm and familiar through the thin fabric of her shorts.
His hand slides a little higher along her side as she shifts closer, instinctively fitting herself into the space beside him. The ease of it makes her chest ache. No hesitation. No uncertainty. Just familiarity built from years of finding their way back to each other.
When he kisses her, it starts gently.
Neither of them in a hurry.
Neither trying to get anywhere.
The ocean continued its endless rhythm outside while the world narrowed to warm skin, sunlight, and the quiet comfort of being close.
His fingers slid into her hair, gathering it gently away from her face. She tilted into the touch, eyes closing briefly as his thumb brushed across her cheekbone.
âYouâre relaxed,â he observed quietly.
âIs that surprising?â
âA little.â
She laughed softly.
Somewhere along the way they shifted higher across the bed. The sheets tangled around their legs.
One of his hands moved slowly along her back, tracing gentle paths beneath the fabric of her shirt. Not teasing. Not demanding. Just touching her because he could.
Her fingers drifted along the line of his shoulder, following the familiar shape of muscle beneath warm skin.
His forehead came to rest against hers.
The next kiss felt different.
Deeper somehow.
Not because of urgency.
Because of certainty.
Louise wrapped her arms around his shoulders and felt him pull her closer in response, both of them smiling briefly into the kiss as though neither could quite believe they had nowhere else to be.
Eventually he drew back just enough to look at her.
His eyes moved over her face carefully.
Like he was reading something written there.
Like he always did.
Slowly, gently, he helped her out of the soft pajamas sheâd been wearing, taking his time, never breaking eye contact for long.
Louise felt the difference immediately.
The entire pace of the evening seemed to shift around it.
Everything slower.
Everything quieter.
Every touch carrying more meaning because neither of them was rushing toward anything.
Lando guided her back onto the mattress before settling above her, bracing himself carefully.
He knew she preferred this.
Knew she felt more secure when she could see him.
When she could feel his weight around her rather than wonder where he was.
The realization had become second nature to him months ago.
Now he adjusted automatically.
Without discussion.
Without being asked.
Louiseâs hand found the back of his neck.
His found hers.
Their foreheads touched again.
The room filled instead with soft breaths, small smiles, and the quiet language they had built together over time.
A squeeze of fingers.
A brush of noses.
The way Louiseâs eyes drifted closed whenever he kissed her forehead.
She wasnât following his lead.
They were moving together.
Matching each other.
Finding the same rhythm naturally.
â
Laterâtime blurred, edges softenedâtheyâre tangled in the sheets, limbs warm and heavy, the world reduced to breath and closeness. Louise lies half over him, tracing idle patterns across his chest, grounding herself in the steady rise and fall beneath her fingers.
Outside, the sea keeps moving.
Inside, thereâs no urgency left.
He presses a kiss to her hair, unthinking, content.
She smiles into his skin, eyes closed.
Thereâs a version of this moment sheâs learned to fearâthe quiet where anxiety creeps in, where her brain starts mapping exits and risks and future fractures.
But it doesnât come.
Instead, she exhales.
Itâs the kind of breath that comes from deep in her chest, slow and deliberate, like sheâs choosing honesty over comfort.
âIâve been thinking about the year,â she says.
Lando doesnât move away. Doesnât rush in. He just nods once, thumb tracing a small, absent arc at her waist. âMe too.â
She watches the pattern heâs making, gathers herself around it.
âAbout how different itâs going to feel,â she continues. âSchedules that donât line up. Weeks that overlap only on paper.â
He waits. Always does. Itâs one of the things she trusts most about himâthat he never steals the end of her sentence.
âLess⊠us by default,â she says finally. âMore effort. More planning.â
Something shifts in his expression. Not hurt. Not defensive. Thoughtful. Like heâs turning the idea over carefully, checking its weight.
âI donât want to lose us to logistics,â she adds, quieter now. âI donât want us to become something that only exists on calendars.â
He turns onto his side so he can see her properly, really see her. The sheets rustle softly. His hand slides more firmly to her waist, anchoring.
âThen we donât let logistics lead,â he says.
She blinks at him. âItâs that simple?â
He huffs a small laugh. âNo. Not simple.â Then, more certain: âBut it is that clear.â
Her mouth tilts into a faint smile. âYouâve been practicing that tone.â
âYeah,â he admits. âIâm learning.â
The quiet laugh that leaves her is warm, unguarded. She nudges her knee between his legs, needing the closeness.
âIâm scared sometimes,â she says after a beat. âNot of you. Never of you. But of timing. Of distance. Of waking up one day and realizing we turned into something functional instead of something⊠alive.â
His gaze doesnât waver.
âIâm scared too,â he says. âBut not in a run-away way. More likeâthis-matters-so-donât-screw-it-up.â
She considers that. Lets it settle.
âThat feels manageable,â she says softly.
He nods. âFearâs only a problem when itâs driving. We can let it sit in the back seat. Buckled in. Aware. But not steering.â
She leans into him then, resting her head against his shoulder. His heartbeat is steady beneath her ear, grounding in the most ordinary way.
They talk after thatânot in sweeping promises or dramatic reassurances, but in specifics.
About weekends where sheâll land late, still smelling like airports, and heâll already be half-asleep but waiting anyway. About mornings when heâll send her voice notes from rental cars, narrating nothing just so she can hear him. About choosing presence over perfection, even when it looks messier from the outside.
âI donât need you all the time,â she says. âI just need you⊠intentionally.â
He presses a kiss to her temple, lingering. âI can do intentional.â
The realization doesnât arrive with fireworks.
Thereâs no cinematic swell, no certainty stamped into permanence.
Just a quiet, steady understandingâthat this feeling, this way of being careful without being afraid, of listening without trying to fix, of choosing softness even when life sharpens around themâ
Itâs rare.
Itâs worth protecting.
Louise lifts her head, studies his face like sheâs committing it to memory. The lines she knows. The ones sheâs still learning.
âWeâre really doing this,â she says.
He smiles, warm and sure, thumb brushing her hip. âYeah. We are.â
Outside, the ocean keeps moving. Time keeps doing what it does.
But inside the small pocket theyâve carved out, they stayâconnected, unafraid, fully present.
âž»
The end doesnât announce itself.
It arrives quietly, folded into the half-packed suitcase left open on the bed, one corner stubbornly refusing to lie flat. The room feels aware nowânot sad, not hollowâjust conscious of having been borrowed. Like itâs memorizing them back.
Louise sits cross-legged on the duvet, folding one of his T-shirts with more care than necessary. She smooths the fabric twice. Aligns the seams. Presses it flat with her palms as if precision might make leaving gentler. It smells like himâsalt and soap and something indefinably himâand she pauses for half a second too long before setting it into the case.
Lando leans in the doorway, arms crossed, weight on one foot. Heâs not pretending not to watch. He watches openly, like if he looks hard enough he can store the moment somewhere safe. The light from the window cuts across his shoulder, turning dust into something almost ceremonial.
âCareful,â he says softly. âYouâll make me believe Iâm organized.â
She huffs a small laugh without looking up. âDonât let it get to your head.â
They move slowly after that. Deliberately. Like time is elastic if handled gently. He zips pockets sheâs forgotten. She sets aside the hoodie she knows sheâll steal back before leaving. Neither of them mentions the clock.
Their last meal arrives without ceremonyâjust a quiet knock, a murmured greeting, plates set down and abandoned wrappers folded away. They eat side by side at the small table, knees touching, sharing food theyâre not really hungry for. It tastes fine. Everything does. Itâs just not the point.
The ocean outside keeps its steady rhythm. Waves rise and fall like they always have, indifferent but comforting. The world hasnât paused for themâbut it gave them this, for a while.
At the door, she lingers. So does he.
This goodbye isnât sharp. It doesnât cut.
Itâs familiar now. Softer than before. Still heavyâbut held. Like something theyâve learned how to carry together.
âIâll see you soon,â he says.
Not a question. Not a wish. A statement placed carefully between them.
She nods once. âI know.â
They hug, and it lasts longer than necessary. Then longer than reasonable. She presses her forehead to his chest, breathing him in like it might last her through airport lounges and time zones and early mornings that feel too quiet. His arms tighten just enough to be grounding, not enough to trap.
He kisses her hairâslow, unhurried, like thereâs no need to rush even now.
"Love you, Lou"
âLove you, Lando.â
When they finally pull apart, thereâs no scramble. No last-second panic. Just the quiet ache of choosing to leave something good because it doesnât disappear when you turn away.
Louise takes her bag first. She doesnât look back right away. She trusts him not to vanish.
Outside, the air feels cooler. Brighter. She walks toward her car, steps steady, spine straight.
Lando watches until sheâs out of sight. Then he exhalesâlong, controlledâletting the moment pass through him instead of lodging somewhere painful. He turns back toward the other side, toward messages and plans and the shape of his life resuming.
Summary: Somewhere between patience, friendship, and falling in love, her laughter stopped being something he stumbled upon and became something they shareâone terrible joke, one teasing comment, and one tickle attack at a time.
Word Count: 1.1k
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Lando remembers the first time he heard her laugh.
Not because it was loud.
Not because it filled the room.
Because it almost didnât.
They were standing just off to the side of a crowded spaceâtoo many people, too much movement, the air buzzing with conversations that werenât meant to last. Louise had been quiet all evening, tucked slightly behind him, hands folded loosely like she wasnât entirely sure where to put them yet.
Someone had said somethingâLando doesnât even remember what now. Probably something stupid. Probably something he meant as a throwaway.
And then she laughed.
It slipped out of her before she could stop it. A soft, startled sound, like sheâd surprised herself. She immediately pressed her lips together afterward, cheeks flushing faintly, eyes darting away as if sheâd revealed something private by accident.
Lando had turned toward her without thinking.
Not because he needed reassurance she was okayâbut because something in that sound had snagged him mid-breath.
It wasnât polished.
It wasnât practiced.
It wasnât loud enough to compete with the room.
It was honest.
And for the rest of that night, he found himself half-distracted, ears tuned not to the conversation in front of him but to the possibility of hearing it again.
âž»
Back then, her laugh was rare.
A reward for patience.
It lived in the small spacesâlate nights, quiet jokes, moments when she forgot herself enough to let it escape. Sometimes it came out crooked, breathy, like she was testing whether it was safe. Other times it was barely more than a huff, a smile she tried to swallow down.
Lando learned quickly not to chase it.
The moment he tried too hardâasked too directly, leaned in too muchâsheâd retreat, walls sliding gently but firmly back into place. So he waited. Let it come when it wanted to.
But that didnât stop him from wanting it.
From noticing how it changed depending on the moment. How it sounded different when she was tired. Or when she was surprised. Or when she laughed so quietly it was almost a secret just for him.
Sometimes heâd say something deliberately ridiculous and watch her fight itâlips twitching, eyes betraying her before the sound ever did.
âStop,â sheâd murmur, shaking her head, like she could will it away.
He never stopped.
âž»
Now, itâs different.
Theyâre at homeâproperly home, not borrowed space or hotel rooms pretending to be familiar. The light in the living room is low, late afternoon sun spilling across the floor in warm, lazy stripes. Louise is curled into the corner of the couch, legs tucked beneath her, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands like she always does when sheâs comfortable enough to forget appearances.
Lando sprawls beside her, one arm stretched along the back of the couch, the other resting lazily against her hip.
Sheâs reading something on her phone, brow faintly furrowed.
âWhatâs that face?â he asks.
She hums. âSomeone online is wrong.â
He grins. âThatâs everyone.â
She snortsâquick, reflexiveâthen freezes like sheâs given something away.
He turns toward her slowly.
âThere it is,â he says.
She sighs. âDonât.â
âToo late,â he replies. âYou laughed.â
âI exhaled.â
âThat was a laugh.â
She shoots him a look. âYouâre unbearable.â
She shakes her head, trying to refocus on her phone, but he can feel itâthe shift. Her guard loosening just a little. Her body already anticipating him.
He leans closer.
âYou know,â he says casually, âI still remember the first time I heard you laugh.â
She glances up, suspicious. âThat feels like a trap.â
âItâs a compliment.â
âThatâs worse.â
He chuckles. âIt was tiny.â
Her expression softens despite herself. âI was nervous.â
âI know,â he says gently. âThatâs why I liked it.â
She studies him for a moment, then sets her phone aside. âYouâre weird.â
âDeeply.â
She relaxes back into the cushions, shoulder brushing his. âYou definitely tried to make me laugh more after that.â
He doesnât deny it. âI considered it a personal challenge.â
âI noticed.â
âI noticed you noticing.â
She laughs thenâreally laughs this time. Louder than before, freer. The sound fills the room, bright and unguarded.
Lando freezes.
There it is.
Still his favorite thing.
âž»
Somewhere along the way, her laugh stopped being rare.
It stopped being something he had to wait for and became something he could earnâthrough shared jokes, through teasing, through moments where the world softened just enough to let her be herself.
And thenâeventuallyâit became something he could cause.
On purpose.
He doesnât do it right away.
He waits until sheâs comfortable. Until sheâs leaning into him, legs draped across his lap, fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns into the fabric of his shirt.
Until she forgets.
Then he shifts.
Just slightly.
She notices a second too late.
âNo,â she says immediately, already laughing, already trying to scoot away.
âOh yes,â he replies.
He hooks an arm around her waist and pulls her closer, her protest turning into a startled laugh as she lands against his chest.
âLandoâstopââ
He doesnât.
His fingers find her sides, light and precise, and she loses it.
She laughs the way she never would have in that first room. Loud, breathless, unfiltered. She twists, trying to escape, hands pushing uselessly at his shoulders.
âIâm serious!â she gasps. âI hate you!â
âLies,â he says, grinning as she squirms.
Her laugh cracksâtoo much air, not enough breathâand she presses her face into his chest, still shaking, still helpless.
âOkayâokayâmercyââ
He relents just enough to let her breathe, arms still wrapped securely around her.
She stays there, catching her breath, cheeks flushed, hair a mess.
âYouâre evil,â she mumbles.
âYou love it.â
She tilts her head back to look at him. âYou love my suffering.â
He softens instantly.
âNo,â he says. âI love that.â
He gestures vaguely at herâat the laughter still lingering in her eyes, at the ease in her body, at the fact that she didnât pull away when he touched her.
She studies him, quiet now.
âYou didnât used to do this,â she says softly.
âTickle you?â
âNo,â she replies. âPull me close.â
He thinks about that.
About distance. About patience. About all the versions of her heâs known.
âI didnât want to scare you,â he admits.
She nods. âYou didnât.â
He smiles. âGood.â
She settles back against him, completely unguarded now, fingers resting lightly over his heart.
âI donât mind being tickled to death,â she says after a moment.
He laughs.
Her fingers tighten briefly in his shirt.
âAnd,â she adds, quieter, âthank you for waiting.â
His chest warms at that.
âFor what?â
âFor letting me get here,â she says simply.
He presses a kiss to the top of her head.
âWorth it,â he murmurs.
She laughs againâsoft this time, content.
And Lando closes his eyes, memorizing the sound like he always has.
Only now, he doesnât have to chase it.
Itâs right thereâwarm, alive, and safe in his arms.
Summary: The schedules donât line up. The distance doesnât get smaller. And hiding isnât getting any easier.
When Lando and Louise realize theyâre running out of ways to fit each other into their lives, they make a choice that feels both overdue and terrifying.
Word Count: 9.7k
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Monaco in December is supposed to be quiet. It isnât. Itâs just⊠shinier.
The light is softer, bouncing off white stone and glass instead of asphalt. The harbor is full of yachts that look aggressively relaxed, bobbing in place like theyâve retired from ambition. No engines screaming. No helicopters chopping the air every ten minutes.
Just money. And sunlight. And schedules that refuse to line up.
Louise and Lando are sprawled on opposite ends of his couch like casualties of a logistical war.
Louise has her iPad open, calendar split into color-coded blocks so precise it looks less like a schedule and more like a circuit diagram. Lando sits across from her with his phone, his version of organization existing somewhere between memory and hopeful scrolling.
Thereâs coffee. Thereâs water. Thereâs a pen Louise hasnât used but refuses to move. Thereâs also a growing sense that this is not going to work.
âOkay,â Lando says, leaning forward, like proximity might help. âI finish with Quadrant stuff on the twelfth. Then Iâm free untilââ He scrolls. Frowns. ââthe fifteenth. But the fifteenth is⊠flexible.â
Louise doesnât look up. âDefine flexible.â
âIt says âmaybe simulator,ââ he says. âWhich could mean anything.â
âThatâs not flexible,â she replies, tapping her screen. âThatâs undefined.â
âSame thing.â
âItâs not.â
He watches her for a second, the way she moves through informationâquick, precise, already three steps ahead of where he is.
âOkay,â he says slowly. âWhen are you free?â
She zooms out on her calendar. Then back in. Then sideways into another tab entirely.
ââŠTechnically?â she says.
âThatâs not a promising start.â
âI have a window on the thirteenth,â she continues, ignoring him. âFrom late afternoon until early morning on the fourteenth.â
He blinks.
âThatâs⊠a night.â
âYes.â
âThatâs your availability.â
âItâs a viable overlap,â she corrects.
He leans back with a stump, staring at her like sheâs just offered him a meeting slot instead of time together.
âLou,â he says, dragging a hand down his face, half amused, half incredulous. âI donât want to book you.â
âYouâre not booking me,â she says calmly. âWeâre aligning schedules.â
âThat sounds worse.â
She pauses. Considers that.
ââŠIt does sound worse,â she admits.
Louise hums, already shaking her head before heâs finished. âIâm in Wellington for horses. Then Switzerland for shooting. Then Aston wants me in the wind tunnel.â
ââŠOf course they do.â
She swivels her iPad toward him. âWhat about after that?â
He leans closer, scrolling. âThatâs February.â
They freeze. Stare at each other. Let it sink in.
â
They try anyway. For another twenty minutes, they move things around. Shift blocks. Open new tabs. Check travel times. Account for delays that havenât happened yet but statistically might.
Every solution creates another problem. Every overlap disappears when they zoom out. At some point, Lando stops pretending this is fixable and just watches her instead.
The way her brow furrowsânot in frustration, but in focus. The way her fingers move faster when something doesnât line up, like she can force it into place if she just tries hard enough.
He knows that look. Heâs seen it in data rooms. In race debriefs. In moments where the answer has to exist somewhere.
But thisâThis isnât a system you can optimize.
âHey,â he says gently.
She doesnât hear him. Or she does, but it gets filtered out by the problem.
âLou.â
This time, she pauses. Looks up.
âWhat?â
He tilts his head slightly, softer now. âWeâre doing too much.â
Her eyes flicker back to the screen. Then to him.
âI can make it work,â she says. Not stubborn. Just certain. âWe just need toââ
âYou donât,â he interrupts, not sharply, just enough to catch her before she disappears into it again. âYou donât have to force it.â
Thereâs a beat. Her shoulders tense. Just slightly.
âIâm not forcing it,â she says.
He doesnât argue. Just watches her. Waits.
And thenâslowlyâsomething in her expression shifts.
Not all at once. Just enough. She looks back at the calendar. At the scattered pieces that refuse to connect. At the empty spaces that should line up but donât.
Then Louise collapses backward against the couch dramatically, one arm flung over her eyes. âWeâre not going to see each other.â
âWeâll FaceTime,â he offers, weak and hopeful.
âI will throw my phone into the sea.â
âWeâll watch something at the same time?â
âYou fall asleep in ten minutes.â
âThatâs untrue,â he protests. âI fall asleep in twelve.â
She sighs, long and theatrical, like sheâs conceding a duel. âI accept defeat.â
He lifts his head immediately. âThat was fast.â
She nods once. Then sets the stylus down.
âThatâs not happening,â she says, more decisively now. âNot without external intervention.â
He blinks.
âExternalâwhat?â
She looks at him. And thereâs something in her eyes now that wasnât there before. Something resigned. Something almost⊠amused.
âThereâs one person who could fix this,â she says.
His posture straightens. âAmazing. Who?â
She winces. Just a little. âIt might cost us.â
He squints. âHow much?â
ââŠEmotionally.â
He groans instantly, hands flying to his face. âOh no.â
âCharlotte.â
Lando stares up at the ceiling like heâs waiting for divine intervention. âCharlotte Charlotte?â
âThe one and only.â
âShe will kill us.â
âShe will judge us,â Louise corrects. âVery thoroughly. Full-length paragraphs. Bullet points.â
âSheâll ask what we were thinking.â
âSheâll say it could have gone terribly.â
âSheâll say, âDonât even get me started on the professional aspect.ââ
Lando rubs his face. âSheâs already started in my head.â
âBut,â Louise adds, quieter now, âsheâll still love us.â
He exhales. ââŠShe does love us.â
âSo,â Lando says slowly, tapping his fingers against his knee. âThat raises a different question.â
Louise tilts her head. âWhich is?â
He holds her gaze.
âAre we ready for that?â
The room stills. Not dramatically. Just enough. Because this isnât about schedules anymore. Itâs about letting someone else see the thing theyâve been holding carefully between them.
Louise doesnât answer right away. Her fingers rest near the iPad, but she doesnât reach for it. Instead, she leans back slightly, eyes driftingânot avoiding him, just⊠thinking.
âShe already knows,â she says after a moment. âAnd our parents too.â
He huffs a quiet breath. âYeah. They do.â
âNot officially,â she adds. âBut⊠functionally.â
He nods. Because thatâs true. The way Charlotte watches Louise sometimesâlike sheâs already filled in the blanks. The way their parents have been⊠adjacent to the truth without stepping directly into it.
âTheyâre just waiting for us to say it.â Lando says.
âYes.â
Thereâs a pause. Thenâ
âDo you want to?â he asks.
The question lands gently. Open. Louise looks at him again. Really looks this time. Not analyzing. Not overthinking. Just⊠checking.
âWe can start small,â she says. âControlled.â
He nods, following her logic. âWho?â
âCharlotte,â she says first, like that oneâs obvious. âBecause logistically, we need her.â
âYeah,â he agrees. âAnd sheâll kill us if we donât tell her before asking for help.â
âAnd then our parents,â she adds.
ââŠYeah,â he says slowly.
âSo itâs not introducing new information,â she continues. âItâs confirming existing assumptions.â
He tilts his head. âYou make it sound like a press release.â
âItâs a strategy,â she replies.
He laughs quietly. Then sobers just a little.
âAnd youâre okay with that?â
She doesnât hesitate this time.
âYes.â
He studies her for a second longer.
Then nods.
âOkay,â he says. âYeah. We can do that.â
â
Louiseâs kitchen smells like freshly brewed coffee and buttered popcornâcomfort food energy, intentional or not.
Charlotte sits at the island, laptop open, glasses perched on her nose, typing with the brutal efficiency of someone who knows things and disapproves of most of them. Louise leans against the counter across from her, arms folded, pretending not to fidget.
Thereâs a knock.
Louise goes to open the door.
Lando steps in, careful like heâs entering a courtroom.
Before either of them fully reaches the kitchen, Charlotte hums. Doesnât look up.
âWhat are you borrowing today?â
Louise snorts before she can stop herself.
Lando shoves his hands deeper into his pockets, suddenly very polite. âActually,â he says carefully, âI came so we could tell you something.â
Charlotteâs fingers stop mid-typing. She looks up slowly. Her gaze flicks from Lando to Louise. Then back again.
âOh,â she says flatly. âThis has a tone.â
Louise clears her throat. âWeâre dating.â
Silence.
Charlotte closes her laptop. Very deliberately. She removes her glasses, sets them down with precision, and folds her hands on the counter.
âI see,â she says.
No yelling. No immediate reaction. Which is worse.
âHow long?â Charlotte asks.
Louise glances at Lando.
âA while,â Lando answers.
Charlotte nods once. âDefine.â
âLonger than youâll like,â Louise says.
Charlotte inhales slowly through her nose. Then begins.
âI will start by saying I do not approve,â she says evenly. âNot because either of you is irresponsible. Quite the opposite. Because you are both highly visible, high-stakes individuals operating in overlapping professional ecosystems with reputational, contractual, and regulatory implications.â
Lando swallows. Louise studies the countertop like it might offer protection.
âThis could have gone terribly,â Charlotte continues. âStill can. The power dynamics aloneâmedia narratives, conflict-of-interest speculation, public pressureâare a minefield.â
She gestures vaguely, like sheâs swatting away worst-case scenarios. âAnd donât even get me started on timing.â
Lando winces. Louise nods, accepting her fate like someone being read a very articulate weather report about an incoming storm.
Charlotte pauses. Her voice changes.
âBut,â she says, softer now, âI also see you.â
Both of them look up.
âIâve watched you,â Charlotte continues. âIndividually. And together. I noticed the changes before I had explanations. Youâre calmer. More grounded. Both of you.â She sighs, tired but honest. âI hate the situation,â Charlotte says, glaring at the universe. âI love you.â
Then she stands and pulls them both into a fierce, uncompromising hug. Louise melts instantly. Lando exhales like heâs been holding his breath for months.
âThank you,â Louise mumbles into her shoulder.
âDonât thank me yet,â Charlotte mutters. âIâm not done.â
Lando groans softly. Louise smiles, already bracing herself. Because this is what love looks like too.
â
The hug ends, and with it, the softness. Not goneânever goneâbut folded away neatly so she can get back to what she does best: anticipating problems before they have the chance to become disasters.
She exhales once, sharp, like sheâs resetting her system, then reaches for her glasses again and slides them back on.
âRight,â she says, voice snapping back into precision. âEmotional acknowledgment complete. Now we deal with reality.â
Lando groans under his breath. Louise doesnât even try to hide her smile. âHere it comes.â
Charlotte ignores them both, already reopening her laptop, fingers moving fast, efficient, pulling up tabs and documents with muscle memory.
âYou two,â she continues, not looking up, âare not just two people dating. You are two drivers. In different teams. In overlapping competitive structures with media ecosystems that thrive on conflict and narrative.â
She clicks something. Scrolls. Clicks again.
âThis is not a private relationship in the traditional sense,â she says. âItâs a potential headline waiting to happen.â
The words donât land harshly. Just⊠accurately.
Lando shifts slightly beside Louise, posture straightening without him realizing it. âWe know,â he says. âWeâve thought about it.â
Charlotteâs gaze flicks upâquick, sharp. âHave you thought about contracts?â
Silence. That answers her question.
She leans back in her chair slowly, studying them like a case sheâs already halfway through solving.
âYour racing contracts,â she says, enunciating each word carefully, âare not designed with this in mind. Not explicitly. But that doesnât mean they wonât react to it.â
Louiseâs arms fold tighter across her chest. âReact how?â
Charlotte tilts her head. âConflict of interest concerns. Media clauses. Behavioral expectations. Sponsorship overlap. Competitive integrity.â
She ticks each one off on her fingers.
âTwo drivers. Two teams. One relationship. That raises questions whether you like it or not.â
Lando exhales through his nose, slow. âWeâre not sharing data or anything like that.â
âI know,â Charlotte says immediately. âThatâs not the point. The point is perception.â
She leans forward slightly, tone sharpeningânot aggressive, just focused.
âYou donât need to do anything wrong for this to become a problem. You just need someone to think you might.â
That lands heavier.
Louiseâs gaze drops briefly to the counter, her brain already running through scenarios, variables, outcomes.
Charlotte softensâjust a fraction.
âIâm not saying this to scare you,â she says. âIâm saying this so youâre not caught off guard when someone else inevitably tries to make it bigger than it is.â
Lando nods once, slower now. âSo what do we do?â
Charlotte doesnât hesitate.
âProtection,â she says simply.
She turns the laptop toward them slightlyânot enough to fully show, just enough to make it real.
âLando, before your next contract revision, you call your legal team, and your manager. You tell themâhypotheticallyâthat you want to understand how personal relationships are handled. You donât need to name Louise. Not yet. But you need clarity.â
He nods again, already filing it away. âOkay.â
Charlotte shifts her attention to Louise.
âIâll handle yours,â she says. âDiscreetly. Iâll review your current agreements, flag anything that could become an issue, and weâll build in protections where we can.â
Louiseâs shoulders drop slightlyârelief, quiet but immediate. âThank you.â
Charlotte hums, like that part was never in question.
âBut,â she adds, lifting a finger, âlegal protection only goes so far. The rest is on you.â
They both look at her.
âThis only works,â she continues, âif you donât make it harder for yourselves.â
Thereâs a pause.
Lando frowns slightly. âMeaning?â
Charlotte gives him a look.
âNo public flirting that can be clipped out of context,â she says. âNo suspicious timing overlaps that look like coordination. No disappearing into the same places without plausible explanations.â
Louise winces slightly. âWeâve been careful.â
âI know,â Charlotte says. âKeep being careful.â
She closes her laptop halfway, not fully disengaging, just⊠pausing.
âYouâve done the hardest part already,â she adds, voice quieter now. âYou built something stable in chaos.â
Louise glances at Lando, just for a second.
Charlotte sees it.
Her expression softens again, despite herself.
âNow you just have to protect it from the parts of your lives that donât know how to leave things alone.â
Thereâs a beat.
Then, because she canât help herselfâ
âAnd for the love of everything, do not give the media a âforbidden romanceâ angle. I will personally shut it down.â
Lando snorts. âNoted.â
Louise smiles, tension easing just enough to breathe again. âWeâll try not to become a storyline.â
She straightens, energy shifting againâback to logistics, to control, to the part of her that keeps everything from falling apart.
âNow,â she says, clapping her hands once. âBack to scheduling before I regret helping you.â
â
Ten minutes later, Charlotte has three calendars open, two phones in hand, and an alarming level of competence.
One phone is balanced between shoulder and ear. The other is scrolling. Her laptop hums quietly, already logged into something that looks expensive and classified.
Louise and Lando sit side by side at the kitchen island like defendants awaiting sentencing.
âOkay,â Charlotte says briskly, tapping a screen. âI can get you Four days.â
Louise gasps, hand flying to her chest. âFour?â
Lando blinks. âTogether?â
âYes,â Charlotte says sharply, already typing. âAfter the new year.â
They both freeze.
Hope creeps in cautiously, like itâs afraid to be punished.
âBut only if you promise to answer my questions.â
The air changes.
Not dramaticallyâno thunder, no violinsâbut in that subtle way Louise has learned to recognize: the moment before consequences. She and Lando glance at each other, a quick, silent exchange theyâve perfected over the last year.
This is happening.
We survive this together.
Louise exhales first. ââŠOkay,â she says carefully, like someone agreeing to step onto ice that looks solid but absolutely isnât.
âFine,â Lando adds, already sighing like a man about to lose an argument he hasnât technically entered yet.
Charlotte leans back in her chair, fingers steepled, eyes gleaming with professional satisfaction. She smiles like a cat whoâs just been handed the house keys and the alarm code.
âExcellent,â she says. âLetâs begin.â
She tilts her head, studying them. âFirst question. How did you manage to hide this?â
Louise shrugs, aiming for casual and only half-hitting it. âYou taught me well.â
Charlotte snorts. âThat is not an answer.â
âI also occasionally post TikToks implying boys have cooties,â Louise adds helpfully. âVery effective misdirection.â
Charlotte blinks. Once.
ââŠYou weaponized the internet.â
âYes.â
âAnd,â Lando cuts in, deadpan, âI just act completely unbothered whenever people speculate about how whipped I am.â
Louise elbows him without looking.
Charlotteâs smile sharpens immediately.
âOh, this should be good.â
Louiseâs shoulders drop a fraction.
Then she grimaces. ââŠI may have stolen your phone a couple of times.â
Charlotteâs mouth falls open.
âAnd,â Louise rushes on, hands flying, âI gave you extra days off. On purpose. Strategically.â
Charlotte stares at her. âYou manipulated my calendar.â
âYes,â Louise says, unrepentant. âLovingly.â
Lando coughs. âShe had color-coded justifications.â
Louise nods. âVery reasonable ones.â
âAnd,â she adds casually, âI bribed the security guys to turn a blind eye more often.â
Charlotte pinches the bridge of her nose. âYou what.â
âThey like pastries,â Louise says defensively. âAnd peace.â
Thereâs a long pause.
âYou bribed your own security team.â
âThey still did their jobs.â
âYou just convinced them not to report suspiciously recurring British men.â
Charlotte lifts her head just enough to point at him. âSee? He understands the issue.â
Charlotte exhales slowly. Deeply. Like sheâs deciding whether to laugh or scream.
âI am both impressed,â she says finally, âand deeply concerned.â
âWe were careful,â Louise says, softer now.
Charlotte looks at her for a beat longer than necessary. Really looks. And sees it immediately.
How much thought this took.
How badly they wanted to protect it.
Then she nods once. âFair.â
She glances down at her notes. âWho else knows?â
âNo one,â Lando answers immediately. âWeâre telling our parents during the break. Just them.â
âAnd your siblings?â Charlotte asks.
âThey suspect,â he admits. âTheyâve been suspicious since I started smiling unprompted.â
Charlotte turns to Louise. âAnd the grid?â
Louise considers it for a second.
âNothing concrete.â
Charlotte gives her a look.
âLouise.â
âFine. There have been comments.â
âWho?â
âMax and Oscar.â But neither of them had concrete proof. Just guesses.â
She scribbles something down, then pauses. Looks up.
âNext question,â she says sweetly. âWho fell first?â
Louise inhales, already forming her answerâ
âShe did,â Lando says instantly.
Louise whirls on him. âI did not.â
âYou absolutely did.â
"Nope.â
âYou texted me first.â
âThat was about racing.â
âAt two in the morning.â
âBecause we were in different time zones!â
Charlotte watches them for exactly three secondsâthe easy overlap, the lack of defensiveness, the way they lean toward each other even while arguing.
Then she smiles.
âYeah,â she says quietly. âYouâre doomed.â
She slides her phone across the counter. âIâll email you the schedule. Four days. Donât mess it up.â
Louise beams like sheâs just been handed a trophy. Lando exhales, shoulders dropping for the first time all day.
Charlotte stands, grabs her mug, already retreating down the hall.
âOh,â she adds without turning around. âAnd if either of you break each otherâs hearts, I will never forgive you.â
Lando nods solemnly. âFair.â
Louise laughsâwarm, relieved, full.
As Charlotte disappears into her room, Lando leans toward Louise and murmurs, âWorth the emotional cost.â
Louise grins. âTold you.â
He kisses herâquick, soft, instinctive.
From down the hall, Charlotteâs voice cuts in sharply:
âNo making out in front of me!â
They burst into laughter, Louise ducking her head against his shoulder, Lando still smiling as if the world has finally aligned.
And for onceâjust onceâit almost has.
âž»
Christmas, Split in Two
The holidays arrive like a pause button.
Not a stop. Just a held breath.
Louise is in New York, wrapped in a city that never really sleeps but hums lower this time of year. Snow dusts the sidewalks like an afterthought. Lights cling to windows. Her parentsâ apartment smells like pine and cinnamon and something sweet Behati swears she didnât overbake.
Lando is in England, home in the way that feels rooted and loud and warm. The kind of house where doors never quite close and someone is always laughing from another room. The air is damp, cold enough to bite, but the kitchen is aliveâsteam, voices, clatter.
They are apart.
They are also everywhere in each otherâs day.
Louise wakes early, as she always does when sheâs somewhere familiar but not hers. The light is pale through the curtains. New York gray-blue. She pads into the kitchen in socks, hoodie pulled tight, pours coffee she doesnât really need.
Her phone buzzes.
Lando:
u awake or am I committing a crime
She smiles into her mug.
Louise:
awake
barely human
you?
A FaceTime request pops up before she finishes typing.
He answers shirtless, hair a mess, cheeks pink from the cold. Thereâs movement behind himâsomeone laughing, a door slamming, the unmistakable chaos of his family waking up all at once.
âYouâre up,â she says softly.
âCouldnât sleep,â he replies. âMy nieces woke me up by asking if Santa has a pit stop strategy.â
She laughs, the sound filling the quiet kitchen. âWhat did you say?â
âThat he definitely runs hards and ignores team orders.â
She snorts. âIconic.â
They sit like that for a few minutes. No rush. Just existing on opposite sides of the ocean, matching mugs, matching soft eyes.
âI miss you,â he says, casual but honest.
âI know,â she replies. âMe too.â
â
By mid-morning, both houses explode into noise.
In New York, Adam is halfway through a story that keeps getting interrupted by Behati correcting details and Louise arguing over ornaments. Someone puts on music too loud. Someone else complains itâs not loud enough.
Louise helps in the kitchen, hair pulled up, wearing pajamas she absolutely packed just for this. Red flannel. Little embroidered stars. She sends a picture.
Louise:
christmas uniform
donât judge
A reply comes immediately.
Lando:
judging
but respectfully
She sends another photo laterâher curled on the couch, blanket tucked under her chin, half-asleep while the room buzzes around her.
Lando:
that is a dangerous nap
youâll wake up in 3 hours confused
Louise:
worth it
In England, Lando is drafted into cooking whether he wants to be or not. His mum hands him a spoon. His sisters argue about playlists. His nieces trail him like ducklings, demanding updates.
â
Louise pulls on a coat and steps outside with Behati, breath fogging, the city crisp and bright. She sends a voice note while they walk.
âI forgot how quiet it gets here on Christmas,â she murmurs. âLike the cityâs holding its breath.â
Lando listens later, bundled up, walking muddy paths near home, the sky low and silver. He sends one back.
âThereâs frost on everything,â he says. âThe kind that crunches when you step on it. Feels⊠grounding.â
They cookâher helping chop vegetables, him burning something he insists was intentional.
They change into pajamas again after lunch, because both families believe in the sacredness of being comfortable.
They nap.
At different times. In different places.
â
By evening, the noise softens.
Lights dim. Wrapping paper litters floors. Someone starts a movie no one fully watches.
Louise finds herself tucked into her parentsâ bed, legs tangled with Behatiâs, head resting against her shoulder like sheâs done a million times. Adam is reading something on his phone at the foot of the bed.
Her phone buzzes again.
Lando:
can we talk later
like actually talk
She knows what he means.
Louise:
yeah
I was hoping youâd ask
In England, Lando is perched on the edge of his childhood bed, door half-open, the sound of his family drifting down the hall. He rubs his hands together once, nerves sneaking in where joy usually lives.
âHey,â she says when the call connects.
âHey,â he replies.
They look at each other for a second longer than usual.
âI thinkâŠâ he starts, then stops. Swallows. âI think itâs time.â
Louise nods. âYeah.â
â
Louise stares at the ceiling, counting breaths.
Not because she needs to calm downâsheâs not panickingâbut because she needs the rhythm. Something predictable. Something she can hold onto while her thoughts line up into something she can actually say out loud without it unraveling halfway through.
The room is dim in that late-evening way where everything softensâlamps turned low, shadows stretching long across the walls, the outside world reduced to a quiet glow beyond the windows. The bed dips slightly under shared weight, sheets wrinkled from when she sat down âjust for a minuteâ and never quite left.
Louise lies perpendicular to her parents, head near the edge of the mattress, feet dangling off the side, staring up at the ceiling like it might offer her a script if she waits long enough.
Then she turns her head.
Behati is already looking at her.
Of course she is.
Not surprised. Not startled. Just⊠there. Watching with that same steady attention sheâs always had, like she noticed the shift in the air before Louise even registered it herself.
Thereâs no urgency in her expression. No immediate concern.
Just quiet readiness.
âOkay,â Behati says gently, voice low and warm, like sheâs easing into something instead of pulling it out. âWhatâs going on?â
Louise almost laughs.
Not because itâs funnyâbut because of course thereâs no escaping that question. Not with her. Not when sheâs like thisâcalm, observant, already halfway to the truth without needing it spelled out.
She swallows.
Her gaze drifts back to the ceiling for a second, like maybe the words will arrange themselves better up there.
They donât.
So she breathes in.
Out.
âIâm dating someone.â
She says it plainly.
No buildup. No softening.
Just⊠there.
The words land in the space between them and stay.
Behati doesnât react immediately.
Not in the way most people would. No sharp inhale, no sudden shift upright, no what? who? since when? spilling out all at once.
Instead, her eyes narrow slightlyânot in suspicion, but in focus. Like sheâs turning the sentence over, checking its weight, its edges.
Adam goes still beside her.
Not frozenâjust⊠attentive in a different way now. Processing.
âOkay,â
A beat passes.
Then, very calmlyâ
âHow long have you been thinking about saying that out loud?â
Louise exhales, something in her shoulders loosening despite herself.
ââŠA while.â
Adam lets out a quiet breath through his nose, almost a laugh. âThat tracks.â
Behatiâs mouth twitches. Not quite a smile yet.
âYeah,â Behati says after a beat, like sheâs confirming something rather than learning it. âWe figured.â
Louise lets out a small, embarrassed huff of air, dragging a hand over her face. âI know you did.â
Adam smiles faintly. âYou got quieter. And then you started smiling at your phone like it was telling you secrets.â
Louise groans, dropping her forehead briefly into the mattress. âThatâs awful.â
âItâs very endearing,â Behati corrects.
Louise peeks at them from the corner of her eye. âYouâre both insufferable.â
âAnd youâre deflecting,â Behati says lightly. âWhich means weâre right.â
Then Behati tilts her head slightly, studying her.
âHow long?â she asks.
Louise hesitatesânot because she doesnât want to answer, but because she knows this is the part that makes it feel real in a different way.
ââŠNot relevant.â
Behati exhales slowly through her nose, somewhere between impressed and mildly offended.
âNot⊠relevant,â she repeats.
Adam lets out a quiet chuckle. âThatâs definitely relevant.â
Louise shrugs, a little sheepish now.
Behati shifts onto her elbows, looking at her more directly.
âOkay,â she says. âAnd youâre⊠good?â
Louise nods immediately. âYeah.â
âLike, actually good,â Behati presses gently. âNot just âthis is new and excitingâ good.â
Louiseâs expression steadies.
âActually good,â she says.
Thatâs enough.
Behati leans back slightly, satisfied. Adam relaxes again into the mattress, something in his posture easing.
âAlright,â he says simply.
Louise watches them both for a second, something warm settling in her chestârelief, maybe. Or just the quiet confirmation that she didnât need to brace for impact in the first place.
Behati, however, is not done.
âSo,â she says, voice casual in a way that is absolutely not casual, âare you going to tell us who, or are we supposed to keep pretending this is a mystery?â
Louise huffs a small laugh, shaking her head.
âYou already know,â she says.
Behatiâs eyebrow lifts. âWe have a strong suspicion.â
Adam glances at Behati, then back at Louise, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. âWeâre waiting for confirmation.â
Louise presses her lips together, like sheâs fighting a smile now.
This part feels⊠different.
Softer. Almost shy, in a way she doesnât usually let herself be.
She exhales.
ââŠItâs Lando.â
Behati blinks once, then lets out a soft, knowing laugh, dropping her head back against the mattress.
âYeah,â she says. âOkay. That's a relief.â
Adamâs smile deepens slightly, more visible now. âThought so.â
Louise stares at them. âThatâs it?â
âWhat were you expecting?â Behati asks, turning her head to look at her again. âA dramatic reaction?â
Louise drops her face into the pillow again. âThis was a mistake.â
âNo,â Behati says immediately, reaching over to nudge her arm. âThis was overdue.â
Louise snorts, rolling her eyes.
âI was going to tell you.â
âEventually,â Adam adds, amused.
Louise points at him. âYouâre not helping.â
He smiles.
Behati grins.
Thereâs a quiet beat.
Then she clears her throat. âThereâs⊠something else.â
Behati hums encouragingly. Adamâs phone is already forgotten, resting face-down on his knee.
Louise shifts, sitting up just enough to look between them. âIâm telling you because I wanted you to know. Not because Iâm ready for it to be⊠a thing.â
Behati tilts her head, instantly understanding the subtext. âYou want it kept small.â
Louise nods. âFor now. Just⊠you. Please.â
Adam smiles, gentle and steady. âOf course.â
âNo aunts,â Louise adds quickly. âNo friends. No âI ran into someone and it slipped.ââ
Behati laughs softly. âNo group chats?â
âEspecially no group chats,â Louise says, earnest. âI really like him. And I love this. I just want to protect it a little longer.â
Behati reaches up, cupping Louiseâs face with both hands. âYou donât owe anyone access to your happiness,â she says firmly. âWe can keep a secret.â
Adam raises two fingers like a vow. âMum and Dad vault. Locked. Sealed.â
Louise exhales, relief washing over her. She sinks back down between them, warmth closing in from both sides.
âThank you,â she murmurs.
Behati presses a kiss to her temple. âAnytime,â she says. âAnd when you are readyâŠâ
She smiles knowingly.
ââŠweâll be very excited.â
Louise groans softly, hiding her face again as both her parents laughâgentle, loving, and exactly the kind of sound that makes her feel safe.
â
Across the ocean, Lando waits until the house settles.
Not quietânot really. This house never is. But it softens. The edges blur. The noise drops into something layered instead of sharpâcartoon voices murmuring from the TV, the clink of cutlery being stacked away, laughter fading into smaller, more private conversations.
One of his nieces is curled into the corner of the couch, thumb tucked into her mouth, eyes heavy but stubbornly open, watching a cartoon sheâs already memorized. The other is upside down on the rug, legs hooked over the armchair, giggling every time something ridiculous happens on screen.
From the kitchen, his parents are still talking.
âIâm serious, we didnât need three desserts,â his dad says, voice low but firm in that way that means heâs already lost the argument.
âAnd Iâm serious,â his mum replies, equally calm, equally unbothered, âpeople like options.â
âNo one needs options after that much food.â
âGood thing no one asked you.â
Lando smiles, small and automatic, the sound of it settling something in his chest.
This is home. Not quiet. Never quiet. But safe in a way that doesnât require silence to exist.
He shifts where heâs sitting, elbows on his knees, hands loosely clasped. His foot bounces onceâtwiceâbefore he stills it deliberately, pressing it flat into the floor like heâs grounding himself in place.
Heâs had harder conversations than this.
With team principals, where every word feels like it could shift the trajectory of his career. With engineers, breaking down mistakes that replay in his head long after the race ends. With himself, alone in hotel rooms, staring at ceilings and trying to make sense of thoughts that donât come with neat conclusions.
This shouldnât feel heavier.
But it does.
Because this one matters in a different way. Thereâs no strategy here. No performance. No angle.
Just truth.
He waits for the TV to dip into a commercial breakâsome instinct, ingrained and precise, telling him timing matters even hereâand then he straightens slightly, drawing in a breath that sits deeper in his chest than he expects.
âMum,â he says.
His voice isnât loud. It doesnât need to be.
Still, it cuts through the room just enough.
âDad. Can I tell you something?â
The reaction is immediate, but not dramatic.
His dad reaches for the remote and lowers the volume without taking his eyes off Lando, the movement automatic, practiced. His mum turns fully toward him, body angling in that quiet, attentive way she always has when something matters.
Thereâs a flicker of concernâbrief, instinctive. The kind that comes from years of watching him live a life that moves fast, breaks things, demands more than it gives back.
But it softens almost as quickly.
âOf course,â she says gently. âWhat is it?â
Lando exhales slowly, letting the air leave his lungs in a controlled stream, like heâs managing it the same way he does everything else.
His hands stay clasped, not tight. Just anchored.
âIâm dating⊠Louise.â
He doesnât build up to it.
Doesnât dress it up.
He just says it.
The words land simply. Clean. No echo.
For half a second, nothing happens.
And thenâ
His mumâs expression shifts first.
Not surprise.
Recognition.
Her smile doesnât break across her faceâit settles there, slow and knowing, like something thatâs been waiting patiently to be confirmed.
âI wondered when youâd say it,â she says.
Not if.
When.
Lando blinks, something in his chest loosening before he fully understands why.
His dad leans back slightly, arms crossing, not closed offâjust thoughtful. Like heâs replaying months of small, quiet details and watching them fall into place.
âThat explains a lot,â he says.
Lando lets out a quiet huff of a laugh, surprised. âIt does?â
His dad nods once. âYouâve been⊠different.â
âBetter,â his mum says before his dad can answer, her tone soft but certain. âYouâre still you. Still busy, still in your own head half the time. But itâs not⊠heavy in the same way.â
His dad gestures vaguely, searching for the right shape of it. âMore settled,â he adds. âLike youâre not constantly chasing the next thing.â
âAnd you call home more,â his mum says, a hint of amusement threading through her voice now. âNot to vent about racing. Just⊠to talk.â
Lando looks down for a second, a small smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.
He hadnât noticed that.
Or maybe he hadâjust not consciously.
âYeah,â he says quietly. âI guess I do.â
Thereâs a pause, but itâs an easy one. No tension. No weight pressing down.
Just space.
He shifts again, fingers brushing lightly against each other before he stills them.
âThereâs⊠one thing,â he adds, glancing briefly toward the hallway where laughter spikes againâhis sisters, his nieces, life continuing uninterrupted.
His mum follows his gaze, then looks back at him, already understanding the shape of the request before he says it.
âCould we keep it between us?â he says. âFor now. Just until weâre ready.â
Thereâs no hesitation.
No glance exchanged between them.
No calculation.
His mum reaches out, her hand closing gently around his, thumb brushing once across his knuckles in a way thatâs grounding without being overwhelming.
âOf course,â she says.
His dad nods easily. âItâs your story,â he adds. âYou get to decide when and how itâs told.â
Something in Landoâs chest loosens fully this time.
Not partially.
Not cautiously.
Fully.
Like something he didnât realize he was holding onto has finally been set down.
âThanks,â he says, softer now.
His mum stands then, crossing the short distance between them without making it into a moment bigger than it needs to be. She pulls him into a hugâgentle, steady, familiar.
Not tight.
Not overwhelming.
Just there.
âI like her,â she murmurs near his ear. âAnd from what Iâve seen⊠sheâs good for you.â
Lando closes his eyes briefly, his forehead resting against hers for a second longer than usual when she pulls back.
He exhales, the words settling somewhere deep and certain.
His dad stands too, stepping in with a firm hand on Landoâs shoulder, giving it a squeeze that says everything he doesnât feel the need to say out loud.
âTell her sheâs welcome here,â he says. âAnytime.â
Lando smilesâreal, unguarded, easy in a way that feels new and familiar all at once.
âI will.â
Behind them, the TV volume creeps back up as the cartoon resumes. One of his nieces lets out a dramatic gasp at something entirely unimportant, the other dissolves into laughter again, and the kitchen argument picks back up like it was never paused.
Life continues.
Unaware.
Unchanged.
And yetâ
Lando sits back down, shoulders lighter, something steady and quiet settling into place inside him.
For once, nothing feels like itâs about to shift.
For once, it just⊠is.
â
Louise is on the living room couch, legs tucked beneath her, scrolling idly through her phone.
Adam stands by the window for a long moment, staring out at the dark garden like heâs about to negotiate a record deal with the moon.
âLou,â he says finally.
âCan we talk?â
She sighs, sets her phone face down on the coffee table, and braces herself theatrically.
âSo this is the sequel?â
âThis is⊠the expanded edition.â
She drops her head back against the couch. âOf course it is.â
He studies her for a second before speaking again.
âYou know Iâm not upset,â he says.
âI know.â
âI justââ He stops, reorganizing the sentence. âYou donât do things lightly.â
Her gaze shifts back to him.
âNo,â she agrees.
âAnd you donât date casually.â
âI don't date, like at all.â
He nods once.
âSo when you say itâs real,â he continues, âI believe you.â
The air changes slightly.
Less joking.
More honest.
She draws one knee closer to her chest.
âIt is,â she says quietly.
âYouâre softer,â he repeats, gentler. âNot weaker. Just⊠open.â
She looks down at her hands.
âI didnât realize I was that closed before.â
âYou were careful.â
âThatâs polite.â
âItâs true.â
She drops her head into her hands.
âI canât believe this is happening.â
He leans back, crossing his arms loosely.
âYouâre still not off the hook.â
Her head snaps up. âOff the hook for what?â
âIâm serious.â
âAbout what?â
âBoundaries.â
She stares at him in disbelief.
âYou cannot be giving me a boundaries lecture.â
âI absolutely can.â
âI negotiate multimillion-dollar contracts,â she says, gesturing toward herself. âWith actual lawyers.â
âThis is different.â
âHow?â
âBecause contracts donât gift you bingo hoodies on Christmas.â
She chokes on a laugh despite herself.
âYouâve been observing,â she says.
âIâm your dad.â
âThatâs not an answer.â
âItâs the only one youâre getting.â
She shakes her head, smiling despite the mild mortification creeping in.
âBoundaries,â he repeats. âKnowing what you need. Not shrinking yourself to make it easier for someone else to love you.â
Her smile fades just slightly.
âI donât shrink,â she says.
âYou used to.â
The words arenât harsh.
Theyâre factual.
She looks away for a second.
The tree lights flicker against the window.
âIâve always been the adaptable one,â she admits quietly. âItâs easier.â
âFor who?â he asks.
She doesnât answer immediately.
He softens.
âI donât want you to be the low-maintenance girl,â he says. âThe cool girl. The one who says sheâs fine when she isnât.â
She exhales slowly.
âIâm not doing that,â she says.
âGood.â
âAre you happy?â he asks one last time.
âYes.â
âSafe?â
âYes.â
âSure?â
âI refuse to answer that.â
He narrows his eyes. âAnswer what?â
âThe unspoken sub-question about whether I am, in fact, being responsible in all the ways youâre worried about.â
He tries to look offended.
âIâm your dad.â
âAnd I am an adult.â
âDoesnât matter,â he repeats stubbornly. âYouâre my daughter and I will always overprotect you.â
She shakes her head slowly, smiling despite herself.
âYouâre impossible.â
âAnd consistent.â
Without another word, he opens his arms.
She groans instantly.
âDonât make it sentimental.â
âGet over here.â
She rolls her eyes but shifts closer, folding into the hug with practiced familiarity.
He holds her tightly, chin resting lightly against the top of her head.
âYouâll always be my little girl,â he murmurs.
She pulls back just enough to glare at him.
âYou promised you wouldnât make fun of my height again.â
âIâm not making fun of it.â
âYou are absolutely implying it.â
âIâm stating a factual comparison.â
She sighs, but sheâs smiling.
âI am not little.â
âYou are to me.â
She hesitates.
Then wraps her arms around him again, squeezing back just as tightly.
âLove you dad,â she says quietly.
âI Love you too baby,â he replies. âI just needed to hear you say youâre okay.â
âI am.â
He leans back, studying her face.
âAnd if that changes?â
âYouâll know,â she says. âBecause I wonât hide it from you.â
Thatâs all he really wanted.
He nods once.
âOkay.â
She bumps her shoulder against his.
âFor the record,â she adds lightly, âheâs very aware that if he hurts me, youâll write a revenge album.â
Adam pauses.
ââŠI hadnât considered that angle.â
She laughs.
The tension dissolves fully now, replaced by something warmer.
â
Later that night, when the houses are quiet and the world feels smaller again, they FaceTime once more.
âIt went well,â she says softly.
âYeah,â he replies. âReally well.â
They sit in silence for a moment. Comfortable. Certain.
âNext Christmas,â he says.
She smiles. âSame place.â
âTogether,â he adds.
She nods. âTogether.â
And the distanceâstill thereâfeels a little less powerful than it did before.
â
Cisca switches off her bedside lamp and slides under the covers. Adam Norris joins her moments later, the mattress dipping familiarly.
For a few seconds, they lie in the dark.
Thenâ
âWell,â he says.
She smiles into the pillow.
âFinally.â
âI thought we were going to have to draw him a diagram.â
Cisca laughs quietly.
âHeâs always been cautious.â
She rolls onto her side to face him.
âYou saw it too, didnât you?â
âThe way he looks when he says her name?â he replies.
She nods.
âHeâs steadier,â she says softly. âLess restless.â
Adam considers that.
âHeâs grown up,â he says.
She smiles faintly. âThey both have.â
He huffs quietly.
âI give it six months before the world figures it out properly.â
âProbably less.â
They fall into a comfortable silence.
Thenâ
âI like her,â he says.
âI know.â
âSheâs calm.â
âSheâs strong.â
âShe doesnât seem impressed by him.â
Cisca grins. âThatâs why he likes her.â
âAbout time,â he repeats softly.
And this time, itâs said with pride.
â
Adam lies on his back staring at the ceiling.
Behati turns on the lamp.
âWell?â she asks.
He exhales.
âWell what?â
âDonât pretend you donât have commentary.â
He turns his head slightly toward her in the dim light.
âI was waiting.â
âFor?â
âFor her to say it out loud.â
Behati smiles softly.
They lie there for a moment, listening to the distant hum of the house.
âWe both saw it coming,â Behati says.
âYes.â
âWhen?â
He thinks back.
âThat christmas morning,â he says. âWhen they were cleaning.â
Behati laughs quietly. âThatâs your romantic origin story? Recycling?â
âIt wasnât about recycling.â
She props herself up on one elbow, amused.
âIt was about the way she wasnât bracing,â he says.
That softens her expression.
âSheâs not guarded around him,â she says.
âNo.â
âDoes that scare you?â
He pauses.
ââŠA little.â
Behati reaches over and threads her fingers through his.
âShe doesnât give her heart to people easily.â
âI know,â
She squeezes his hand.
âAnd he looks at her like sheâs not something to win.â
Adam turns his head slightly.
âWhat gave it away to you?â
âShe mentioned this boy,â she says. âVery casually.â
Adam smiles already. âOh no.â
âOh yes,â she continues. âShe said she wasn't sure if he was âjust a good friend.ââ
He raises an eyebrow. âJust a good friend.â
âMm-hm.â
âAnd?â
âShe said she liked talking to him.â
Thereâs a dramatic pause.
âLouise? She? Liked talking?â he repeats, incredulous.
âVoluntarily,â she confirms.
Adam gasps softly. âOh, she was gone.â
âCompletely.â
âShe tried to sound analytical about it,â she adds. âYou know that tone she uses when sheâs pretending something is strategic.â
He nods immediately. âThe detached one.â
âYes. Except she used the phrase âI just⊠feel calm when we talk.ââ
Behati drops back onto her pillow.
âOh, thatâs fatal.â
âI knew then.â
She laughs quietly into the dark.
âShe never âjust talksâ to people,â Adam says. âShe schedules, she filters, she evaluates.â
âExactly.â
âAnd she liked talking.â she says. âWith no agenda,â
Adam turns her face toward him again, eyes soft.
âYou mustâve panicked.â
âI absolutely panicked. On the inside.â
She smiles knowingly.
âSheâs always been so careful,â Behati says. âIf she was letting herself enjoy something that simpleâŠâ
ââŠit meant it wasnât simple,â he finishes.
They share a look in the dim light.
âRight?!â she whispers, half-laughing.
âRight.â
They lie in quiet for a moment longer.
Thenâ
âFinally,â Adam says softly.
âI thought we werenât supposed to meddle.â
âWe didnât,â she replies calmly. âWe just observed.â
He considers that.
âI like him,â she adds.
He groans quietly. âDonât say that.â
âWhy?â
âBecause now I have to admit I do too.â
She laughs, pressing a kiss to his shoulder.
âTook you long enough,â she murmurs.
He shakes his head.
âTheyâre going to be insufferable.â
âThey already are.â
He smiles despite himself.
âž»
Between Christmas and New Year
The days between Christmas and New Year always feel unmoored.
Like time is holding its breathâcaught between whatâs already happened and whatever comes next. Schedules dissolve. Expectations blur. The world feels briefly less demanding, like itâs giving everyone permission to drift.
Louise feels it most in the mornings.
New York is gray and humming outside the windows, the city already leaning forward, already impatient. Taxis hiss over wet pavement. Somewhere below, a delivery truck backfires. The sky is low and pale, undecided.
Sheâs curled on the couch in her parentsâ apartment, socked feet tucked under her, one of her mumâs throw blankets pulled up around her shoulders. Her phone is balanced on her knee, charger stretched taut across the floor.
Landoâs face fills the screen.
Heâs somewhere warmâshe can tell immediately by the color of the light, the way it softens the edges of him. Heâs in a loose T-shirt, collar stretched just enough to look lived in, hair still damp like heâs just come in from outside or the ocean. Thereâs a brightness to him that isnât England.
âOkay,â she says, narrowing her eyes. âYouâre not in England anymore.â
He grins, unapologetic. âCaught.â
âWhere are you?â
âBack in Monaco, briefly,â he says. âHeading to one last trip with the guys. Iâm in need of somewhere loud, warm, and slightly chaotic before the year ends.â
She hums, watching the way he leans closer to the camera like he always does, like distance is something he can cheat if he concentrates hard enough. âThat tracks.â
âAnd you?â he asks. âWhatâs the plan?â
Louise shrugs, rolling onto her side, cheek pressed into the cushion. âI⊠donât actually know.â
He blinks. Once. âWhat do you mean you donât know?â
âMy dad handled the logistics,â she says. âMy mum packed my suitcase like usual. I was told to show up at the airport and not ask questions.â
âThat is,â he says solemnly, âgenuinely terrifying.â
She laughs, the sound soft and sleepy. âI trust them. Mostly.â
Thereâs a pause.
Not awkward. Just quieter.
She picks at the cuff of her sleeve, eyes drifting to the window. âIâm a little sad we wonât see each other.â
His expression changes immediately. The grin fades into something more intent, more present. âYeah,â he says. âMe too.â
For a beat, neither of them tries to fill the space.
Then he tilts his head, mischief flickering back in like a familiar shield. âI meanâtechnicallyâIâm the only one who has the right to complain about not getting my New Yearâs kiss again.â
Her brows lift. âExcuse you?â
âTwo years in a row,â he says gravely. âAt this point itâs a pattern. I should file a formal complaint.â
She smiles, but it wobbles at the edges. âI would kiss you if I could.â
âI know,â he says softly. âThatâs why Iâm only pretending to be dramatic.â
She presses her lips together, warmth spreading through her chest, a little undone by how easily he sees her.
âPromise me something,â he adds.
âWhat?â
âWherever you end up⊠look up at midnight.â
She nods without hesitation. âYou too.â
They hang up a few minutes later, both pretending it doesnât sting more than they expected.
â
Louise arrives first.
The resort is all soft light and ocean air, tucked into the cliffs like itâs trying not to be found. Nothing about it announces itself. The entrance is almost deliberately understatedâjust a narrow road that winds down through low greenery before opening, quietly, into something expansive.
Stone paths curve instead of cutting straight, guiding rather than directing. Linen curtains drift in and out of open archways, breathing with the sea breeze. Somewhere, water movesânot loudly, not for attention, just enough to remind you that itâs there.
Louise wakes slowly, blinking into it, her body taking a second longer than usual to catch up with where she is.
For a moment, she just lies there.
Listening.
Nothing urgent presses in. No notifications. No mental checklist already halfway formed.
Just space.
She exhales, long and steady, and lets herself stay there a few minutes longer before getting up.
She wanders around with no destination, no route sheâs trying to follow. Just curiosity, moving her forward in small, quiet decisionsâthis path instead of that one, this turn because the light looks better there, this direction because she hasnât seen it yet.
The resort reveals itself slowly when you donât rush it.
Terraced gardens that step down toward the sea. Small sitting areas tucked into corners like afterthoughts. A pool that blends so seamlessly into the horizon it feels more like an extension of the ocean than something built.
Then, out of habit more than intention, she glances at the welcoming dock that stretches out into the water. The wood is sun-warmed, the surface worn smooth in places from years of quiet use.
And thenâ
Movement.
She turns slightly, attention catching on the far end of the dock where a small group is making their way up from the lower platform where boats usually come in.
At first, itâs just shapes.
Silhouettes against the brighter water behind them.
But then they step fully into the light.
And recognition hits.
Not all at once.
In pieces.
A familiar posture. The way someone carries their shoulders. The rhythm of a walk sheâs seen too many times to mistake.
Her gaze sharpens slightly, focusing.
Thereâs a laughâcarried faintly on the windâand thatâs what does it.
Not the faces.
The sound.
She knows that sound.
Louise stills without meaning to, her weight shifting subtly as she watches them come closer, her brain catching up in small, quiet recalculations.
She doesnât tell him.
Not because itâs a secretâbut because something in her wants to let it exist unobserved for a moment. Like a rare alignment she doesnât want to scare off by naming. Like if she speaks it too soon, it might vanish.
That night, he texts.
Lando: this place is chaos
Louise: you thrive in chaos
Lando: I thrive in you
Louise: go enjoy life
Lando: I am allowed to miss my girlfriend
She smiles into her pillow, pressing her face into the cool sheets.
Louise: dramatic
Lando: accurate
Over the next two days, he keeps complaining lightlyâabout bad cocktails, loud music, the way his friends insist on group photos that never end up framed.
She responds with restraint.
hydrate
touch grass
consider joy
He sends a voice note that sounds like a sigh pretending to be a joke. She listens to it twice, once just to hear his voice, once to catalog the way heâs smiling even when he claims heâs not.
Still, she doesnât tell him.
â
New Yearâs Eve arrives wrapped in gold and noise.
The resort glowsâlanterns strung low, fire pits crackling, music drifting in soft waves instead of pounding. People gather in clusters dressed in whites and deep blues and dark silks that catch the light.
Louise stays with her group for most of the evening. Sheâs polite. Present. Distant in that way she gets when sheâs waiting for something she hasnât scheduled.
Fireworks begin just before midnight.
Everyone counts down together.
Ten.
Nine.
Eight.
She feels it before she decides.
At six, she slips away.
At five, she moves faster.
She cuts along the edge of the crowd, heart steady, steps sure. She knows where heâll be without knowing how she knowsânear the far terrace, away from the loudest noise, pretending not to watch the sky too closely.
She finds him exactly there.
A little apart. Head tilted back. Fireworks reflecting faintly in his eyesâ
âand then sheâs there, fingers curling into his sleeve.
He turns.
Freezes.
âLouâ?â
She doesnât let him finish.
She pulls him toward her, past the lanterns, past the low wall, into a quiet pocket of shadow where the fireworks are still visible but the world feels suddenly far away.
Two.
His hands come up instinctively, hovering like heâs afraid she might disappear if he moves too fast.
âIs thisâ?â he starts.
Then his hands are at her waist, solid, certain. âAre you real?â
She laughs, breathless, forehead brushing his. âYou said you deserved your kiss.â
One.
Fireworks explode overhead.
She kisses him.
Soft at first. Then certain. Like theyâve been holding their breath all year and finally let it go.
When they pull back, he rests his forehead against hers, laughing quietly, stunned.
âYou absolute menace,â he murmurs.
She grins. âHappy New Year.â
âBest one yet,â he says, and kisses her againâthis time slower, unhurried, like thereâs nothing left to prove.
Behind them, the world celebrates.
But right there, in the corner they carved out just for themselves, the year begins exactly the way it was always meant to.
â
The morning after New Yearâs arrives gently.
No countdowns. No music. Just salt air and the sound of water somewhere below the cliffs, moving like it always has, unimpressed by human calendars.
Louise wakes slowly. Her brain is quiet in a way that feels earned, not empty. She sits on the edge of the bed for a moment, letting it settle.
She doesnât text him.
Neither of them do.
Itâs unspoken, but clear: weâll see what the day does.
â
They cross paths by accident.
Or something close enough to it that neither of them argues with the story.
Louise is walking back from breakfast, hair still damp, barefoot because she refuses shoes before noon. Sheâs scrolling absently, not really reading anything, when a laugh cuts across the pathâfamiliar, bright, unmistakably his.
She looks up.
Heâs coming toward her with a groupâsix, maybe seven people, sunburned and loud and relaxed in the way only people who slept badly but happily can be. One of them is mid-story, gesturing too broadly. Another is carrying two coffees and already regretting it.
Lando sees her at the same time.
Thereâs a microsecond where his face does something honestâsoft surprise, warmth, the echo of last night still bright behind his eyes.
Then he remembers where they are. Whoâs watching. They both adjust seamlessly. He slows, just a fraction. She stops entirely.
âMorning,â he says, easy.
âHi,â she replies, matching his tone.
Not distant. Not intimate. Balanced.
One of his friends clocks the shift immediately. âOhâhey,â she says to Louise, curious.
Lando clears his throat. âUhâthis is Louise.â
She nods once, polite. âHi.â
âThis is⊠everyone,â he gestures vaguely, which earns him a shove in the arm.
Introductions ripple outward. Names exchanged. Small talk settles in like a well-worn coat.
Lando snorts before he can stop himself.
She flicks him a lookâfond, quick, gone.
Someone else raises an eyebrow. âYou two seem⊠familiar.â
Lando answers before Louise can. âSame grid.â
She nods in agreement. âSame insomnia.â
That satisfies them. Mostly.
They walk together toward the terraceâLouise drifting slightly to the edge of the group, Lando unconsciously adjusting his pace so she doesnât fall behind or pull ahead. Itâs subtle enough that no one calls it out. Obvious enough that his friends start watching more closely.
At one point, someone asks, âYou staying long?â
Louise glances at Lando before answering. Not for permission. For calibration.
âA few days,â she says. âYou?â
âSame,â he replies.
Their eyes meet for half a second longer than necessary.
Then he looks away first.
Later, as the group dispersesâsome toward the pool, others toward activities Louise has no interest inâshe and Lando end up walking side by side again, temporarily unobserved.
He keeps his hands in his pockets.
She keeps hers wrapped around a glass of water she hasnât touched.
âThat went well,â he says quietly.
âWe didnât break anything,â she agrees.
âLow bar.â
âHistorically challenging.â
He smiles, then reins it in.
âThank you,â he adds, more softly.
âFor what?â
âFor⊠making it easy.â
She considers that. âYou make it easy too.â
They stop at a fork in the path. One direction leads to her building. The other to his.
He hesitates, then says, carefully, âBreakfast tomorrow?â
She nods. âPublic place.â
âObviously.â
âAccidental again?â
âTragically.â
They share a lookâamused, steady, full of things theyâre not saying. Then they part. Like people who chose each otherâand are patient enough to keep choosing, even when the world is watching.
Summary: Lando and Louise take Glamourâs Friendship Test and immediately fail the âfriendshipâ part of it.
Word Count: 2.6k
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The studio is entirely white.
Not soft ivory. Not cream.
White in a way that feels deliberate â seamless floors melting into curved walls, light diffused so evenly it erases shadow. The kind of space where every movement is visible and every expression has nowhere to hide.
a small white pedestal table between them. On it, a clear glass bowl filled with folded questions.
Louise adjusts the hem of her skirt before the cameras roll. Sheâs wearing a Miu Miu set â tailored micro-skirt, layered shirts beneath a structured jacket, delicate necklaces stacked at her collarbone that catch the studio lights when she turns her head. Her hair falls neatly over one shoulder, precise but effortless.
Lando stands beside her in Ralph Lauren trousers, a crisp dress shirt slightly undone at the collar, jacket fitted but relaxed enough to move in. He smooths his sleeves once, glances at the camera rig as it tilts into position.
The red tally light flickers on.
A soft mechanical hum as Camera One slides forward on its track.
He leans in slightly, the familiar media smile settling easily into place.
âHi, Iâm Lando Norris.â
âHi, Iâm Louise Levine.â
Her tone is even, controlled â but thereâs a flicker in her eyes already.
Cut back to both of them in a wide shot.
âAnd today,â Lando continues smoothly, âweâre taking Glamourâs Friendship Test.â
Thereâs a beat.
Louise inhales, tilts her head slightly toward the camera rather than him.
âCan I start by saying,â she says calmly, âweâre not friends.â
The silence that follows is surgical.
The camera cuts to Landoâs profile.
He turns slowly.
âWeâre not?â
His eyebrows lift just enough to be noticeable.
She doesnât look at him.
âHave you ever asked to be my friend?â
The camera tightens on him.
He blinks once. Twice.
âNo,â he admits carefully. âBut we hang out sometimes.â
âOur parents are friends,â she replies, adjusting one of her necklaces absentmindedly. âAnd we sometimes just happen to be in the same place because we have the same job.â
Cut.
Zoom.
He turns fully to Camera Two, face deadpan, eyes steady and betrayed in a way that is almost theatrical.
The zoom pushes in closer.
He doesnât blink.
Off-camera, someone stifles a laugh.
â
Test One: How Did You First Meet?
The card rests on the pedestal between them. Louise reaches for it first, fingers unfolding the paper carefully.
âRetell how you first met,â she reads, her voice softer now, less teasing. âAnd give your first impressions of each other.â
Thereâs a shift.
Not dramatic. Just a recalibration.
âThursday,â Lando says. âMedia day. Australian Grand Prix. 2025.â
Louise nods once, eyes flicking to him briefly.
âShe was in the paddock with her dad.â
âI was looking for Charlotte,â she adds. âAnd my iPad.â
He exhales through his nose â a quiet laugh.
âShe wasnât looking at anyone else. It was like⊠everyone else was noise.â
The white studio feels even quieter now.
âShe was quiet,â he continues. âBut not empty quiet.â
Louise turns her head toward him slightly at that.
âYou were measuring,â he says. âLike you had a lot to say, but you were deciding who was worth saying it to.â
The camera lingers on her reaction â a faint narrowing of her eyes, surprised but not displeased.
âThatâs observant,â she says softly.
âI am observant.â
The corners of his mouth lift.
âAnd you?â he asks. âFirst impression.â
She studies him openly now, no teasing.
âYou were used to giving the room what you thought you owned it,â she says.
His brows knit slightly.
âThat sounds worse than it is.â
âItâs not bad,â she clarifies. âYou were just always doing more to others than to yourself.â
The camera catches the micro-shift in his expression â humor dimming briefly into something thoughtful.
He recovers quickly.
âI invited her to play foosball.â
âYou lost,â she says immediately.
He turns toward her fully now, shoulder angling in.
âI did not lose.â
âYou did.â
The camera cuts wide, catching her smile â small but victorious.
âYou demolished me,â he concedes finally.
She shrugs.
âAnd now,â she adds, smoothing her skirt slightly, âI beat him in Formula one.â
He exhales, long and dramatic.
The camera zooms again as he looks directly into the lens.
âSheâs been waiting to say that publicly.â
â
Test Two: Create a Secret Handshake
"We kinda already have oneâ Lando says turning to face her.
The white set swallows their shadows as they move closer.
âItâs not secret,â Louise says lightly. âItâs reserved.â
âItâs sacred,â he corrects.
They start with a simple high-five â crisp, clean.
But instead of separating, their hands slide, fingers hooking briefly. Thereâs a smooth circular motion, practiced without needing to look at each other. They dip lower and meet again for a second, lower, softer high-five.
The movement is fluid.
Familiar.
âWhen do you use it?â the producer asks from behind the lights.
âGrid,â Lando answers.
âAfter a race,â Louise adds.
âAlways when we both podium,â they say almost in sync.
Thereâs no bravado in it.
Just routine.
â
Test Three: Fishbowl Questions
Louise dips her hand into the glass bowl, bracelets glinting faintly.
âWhat was the best moment you had racing?â she reads.
She glances sideways at the crew.
âLike together or individually?â
âBothâ
He leans back slightly, jaw tightening as he thinks.
âMy first win at Silverstone,â he says. âHome crowd.â
The camera catches the way his gaze drifts slightly past the white walls â somewhere far beyond them.
âYou hear them before you see them.â
Louise watches him as he speaks, not interrupting.
âAnd together?â the producer prompts.
âThat sprint race,â he says, returning to the present. âWe passed each other like three times.â
âShe still lostââ he starts.
âWon,â she corrects smoothly.
He sighs.
âShe still won. But it felt almost fun. Like karting. Not Formula One.â
Louise unfolds her own memory next.
âBrasil,â she says.
The word alone shifts her posture.
âHome races do carry something heavier. To win there⊠in front of your people.â
Her fingers trace the edge of the paper absently.
âAll my other wins, even before racing, I did alone. Different countries. But thatâŠâ
She glances at him briefly.
âThat felt shared.â
The studio is silent.
âAnd together?â the producer asks gently.
âFor me⊠Zandvoort,â she says.
He groans softly.
âAfter someone crashed me into his car,â she clarifies, turning to the camera.
He shakes his head.
âAnd we just started sliding down the dunes,â she continues, laughter creeping back in. âWith carbon fiber pieces.â
âI don't think I'll ever do anything close to that ever againâ he mutters.
Next question.
âWhat is your favorite helmet design your friend had for a special race?â
Louise visibly falters.
âFrom like⊠ever?â
âYes.â
âHe has like eight yearsâ worth of designs,â she says, visibly overwhelmed. âCan I pick five?â
âNo.â
âThree?â
He laughs. âIâll go first while you collapse.â
He taps his chin thoughtfully.
âHer ladybug one. From the last race in Abu Dhabi.â
She smiles.
âThat one was cute.â
âIt wasnât cute. It was terrifying.â
âIt was adorable.â
âTerrifyingly adorable.â
She rolls her eyes.
âMy top three of his,â she begins carefully,
âYou can't do three.â
âAlready did. In no particular order. The beach ball one from Miami?â
He nods. âYep.â
âThat dark mode one,â she continues, gesturing vaguely. âWith the inverted colors, and the sparkling coat.â
âUnderrated,â he agrees.
âAnd Vegas. 2025. The one with the little paintings.â
He smiles at that.
âThat was my 150th race start.â
âIt looked cool.â
â
âWhat was it like racing against each other, and what has changed now that you both hold a title?â
Louise folds in on herself slightly, a small groan escaping.
âI hate this questions.â
He laughs, the sound easy.
âShe really does.â
She straightens reluctantly.
âHonestly,â she says carefully, âI never really thought about it like, âOh, Iâm racing against him.â Not until the very last race.â
She gestures vaguely, remembering.
âBy then it was like⊠a midwestern standoff. But still pragmatic. When the visor is down, heâs just another car on track.â
The camera captures the firmness in her eyes.
He nods slowly.
âFor me it was different,â he admits. âIâd seen her cause havoc across other series last year.â
She looks offended.
âIn a good way,â he clarifies quickly. âBut when she arrived in Formula One it was likeâŠâ
He makes a vague swirling motion with his hand.
âOh. The storm is here.â
She raises an eyebrow.
âStorm?â
âIn a good way,â he repeats. âIt made me want to be sharper.â
The room is quiet for a moment.
A producer off-camera prompts gently:
âAnd what changed after that last race?â
The question lands between them like itâs testing the surface tension.
Louise doesnât hesitate.
âI think,â she says, crossing one leg over the other more deliberately, âthe only thing that changed was that he couldnât tease me anymore.â
Landoâs head snaps toward her.
âI didnât tease!â
The camera cuts tighter â the white background amplifying every expression.
She points at him immediately.
âLiar.â
He leans back, offended in theory, amused in practice.
She turns slowly toward the camera, posture straightening as if delivering sworn testimony.
âEvery time,â she begins calmly, counting on her fingers, âit would be âTalk to me when you have a championship.ââ
He shakes his head.
ââNo championship, no opinion.ââ
He opens his mouth to interrupt.
ââOh sorry, only world champions allowed.ââ
The studio crew laughs audibly now.
He looks at the ceiling as if asking for strength.
âI was motivating you,â he insists.
She pivots back to him.
âYou were insufferable.â
âI was encouraging competitive excellence.â
She smiles sweetly.
âWell.â
She smooths her skirt, chin lifting slightly.
âNow I can rub it in his face that I have one too.â
She pauses just long enough.
âAnd I beat him to get it.â
The camera cuts to his reaction.
A controlled inhale.
A slow blink.
Zoom.
âI would like it noted,â he says carefully, âthat the margin wasââ
âNo one asked,â she replies lightly.
â
The next card is handed over.
âWhat is the secret to a long-lasting friendship?â
Louise reads it once.
Then again.
She looks up at the camera with complete sincerity.
âDonât ask us.â
Lando starts laughing before she finishes.
âAfter this,â she continues, gesturing vaguely between them, âI donât think weâre ever speaking again.â
He leans forward, hands on knees, shoulders shaking with laughter.
âNo, really,â she says, folding into herself slightly, âlong-lasting? Weâve known each other what â two years?â
He nods.
âThatâs not long-lasting.â
She spreads her hands as if presenting undeniable evidence.
âThis is⊠medium-term. At best.â
He exhales dramatically.
âNext question please,â he says, waving toward the bowl. âWeâre not qualified.â
âCircle back in like five years.â
â
She reaches into the glass fishbowl again.
âWhatâs the funniest radio message the other has said?â
Her entire posture changes.
âOh,â she says, delighted. âHe has good ones.â
He groans quietly.
âThat âItâs Friday then itâs Saturday Sunday whatâ oneââ
âOld,â he mutters.
âThat âJarv are you crying?â one.â
âThat was years ago.â
âThat âUp and down side to side like a rollercoaster.ââ
âAnd,â she finishes triumphantly, ââThe gap behind, you muppet.ââ
He points at her.
âThose are OLD.â
She shrugs.
âNot my fault you were more spontaneous back then.â
The camera cuts sharply to him.
âHa ha,â he says flatly.
Then he recovers, turning toward her with narrowed eyes.
âI liked that time you recited pi during a lap.â
She stiffens slightly.
âThat was efficient brain usage.â
âYou asked to play chess with your engineer mid-race.â
âIt was a strategic thought experiment.â
âAnd,â he continues, leaning back smugly, âthat thing you always said when you won.â
She knows exactly what he means.
She straightens dramatically, and in a bright, exaggerated bingo-caller voice says:
âHurray.â
The room erupts.
He shakes his head.
âEvery. Single. Time.â
âItâs consistent branding,â she says with mock seriousness.
â
Test four. Give your friend a compliment
The producer claps lightly.
Louise freezes.
âOh no.â
âCome on,â he says, nudging the edge of her shoe lightly with his own. âPut some effort into it.â
âYou go first then.â
He inhales, turning toward her fully now.
Thereâs less teasing in his posture this time.
âLouise,â he begins, deliberately emphasizing, âyouâre a great friend.â
He stresses the word friend just enough to make her eyes narrow.
âYouâre funny,â he continues. âAnd you always know how to light up a room.â
She looks at him skeptically.
âEven if you donât mean to,â he adds.
Her expression softens.
âAww,â she says quietly. âThatâs sweet. Thanks.â
âYour turn.â
She slows.
She looks down at the card in her lap.
âLando,â she begins carefully, âyou areâŠâ
A pause.
ââŠnice.â
He blinks.
âThatâs it?â
She pretends to examine the card more closely.
âDid you even write anything?â he asks suspiciously.
Before she can react, he reaches over and steals the card from her hand.
âHey!â
He turns it toward the camera.
âShe doodled.â
The camera zooms.
On the card, instead of notes, is a small frog â round eyes, heart smile.
âIt looks like you!â she protests. âIt has your eyes!â
He stares at it.
âUnbelievable.â
âYouâre welcome,â she says, folding her hands innocently.
â
Final prompt.
âAfter all these exercises today, do you feel closer to each other?â
He answers first this time.
âYeah,â he says simply. âI do.â
The tone is lighter, but thereâs no sarcasm.
She leans back in her chair.
âI feel like I need a snack break,â she says thoughtfully. âAnd a nap.â
He laughs.
âThatâs not what they asked.â
âItâs how I feel.â
â
âAnd what do you think the next race year will be like?â
Louise tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.
âI donât know,â she says. âIâm only racing like a few weekends.â
She shrugs lightly.
âBut I think itâll be fun.â
He tilts his head.
âIâm pretty sure sheâll find a way to terrorize us even with limited weekends.â
She smiles sweetly.
âI prefer the word challenge.â
â
The red light clicks off.
But the cameras keep rolling for B-roll.
Louise looks immediately toward the crew.
âWe donât have to play any more games, right? Are we done?â
âAlmost,â someone replies.
She groans softly.
During a reset, he tries to pinch her arm discreetly.
She retaliates instantly, sharper and faster.
He feigns injury.
She twirls once in her Miu Miu skirt absentmindedly, watching how the hem flares under the lights.
He runs a hand through his curls, trying to reshape them into something less chaotic.
âAnswer properly,â Charlotte calls from behind the monitor.
Louise turns toward her.
âWhat else do you want from me, woman!â
The crew laughs again.
He looks at the camera one last time, jacket slightly crooked now, composure entirely gone.
And in the bright white studio, with no shadows to hide in, they look less like rivals, less like champions â
And more like two people who have learned exactly how to orbit each other.
âž»
The thumbnail alone causes damage.
Two world champions sitting in a stark white studio, angled toward each other like they forgot cameras existed.
And then people actually watch the video.
Which makes everything exponentially worse.
Fashion accounts post screenshots of their outfits.
Media training analysts praise their chemistry.
Body-language experts on TikTok make eight-minute breakdowns full of red arrows and unnecessary circles.
One particularly viral tweet says:
âThis is either two people deeply in love or the most emotionally confusing friendship in modern sports.â
Nobody can agree which answer is worse.
By midnight, âweâre not friendsâ is trending.
So is âHurray.â
People are buying frog stickers.
Someone makes merch.
Someone else makes a ten-minute video essay called:
The Intimacy of Competitive Orbiting: Why the Norris-Levine Dynamic Works
It reaches 300k views overnight.
And somewhere in Monaco, probably curled sideways on a couch after pretending not to care about any of it, Louise opens her phone to 97 unread messages.
I must confess that I don't know if it's because of my goldfish memory or the fact that English is not my first language and therefore I find it difficult to notice those details while trying to understand what I read. But I didn't really notice any difference between the previous and the final version of the last chapter. đ
Just as I always love this series and I appreciate Louise and Lando very much, I love how you write them... And I'm excited for what's coming next with Lou on AM
I also wondered how long it will take for the rest of the world or at least their families to have confirmation of their relationship... The poor couldn't be more obvious. I think someone would catch them kissing and just say: we knew it, pay the bet
Haha, not much changed overall, just very fine details, but enough to bug me, just mismatched things that I usually edit when I upload the draft and some dialogue lines.
GREAT things are coming for Louise this year... And her relationship with Lando also evolves a lot.
They are both too careful to get spotted like that (though I have an interlude coming up that's the opposite of that hehehe), but some announcements will be made this week... I think the main thing with them is that they don't pile in at the discourse around them, people can ship them all they want, they'll never add to it, not until they want and are ready for it.
Summary: Featuring post-season exhaustion, contract negotiations, Abu Dhabi at midnight, an FIA Gala that feels suspiciously like history repeating itself, and Louise Levine deciding her life is allowed to be bigger than Formula One.
Warnings and Notes: SMUT!
Word Count: 8.4k
Masterlist
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Abu Dhabi looked softer after the racing rush ended.
Quieter.
The city always felt artificial during the Grand Prix weekendâtoo bright, too loud, too full of temporary structures and endless movementâbut once Formula One started packing itself back into cargo planes, something calmer emerged underneath.
By Wednesday night, the marina outside Louiseâs apartment had finally stopped glowing papaya and Red Bull colors.
The fireworks were gone.
The paddock had been dismantled.
Most of the grid had already scattered across different continents again.
And for the first time in months, nobody needed anything from her.
No sponsor dinners.
No debriefs.
No media appearances asking how it felt to become the first woman to win a Formula One World Championship.
No cameras waiting outside hotel elevators.
Just silence.
Louise sat curled sideways on her couch wearing one of her oldest hoodies and soft shorts, hair still damp from the shower sheâd taken nearly an hour earlier.
The apartment lights stayed dim except for the warm glow from the city outside and the soft blue reflection of her iPad balanced against her knees.
Some youtube video played quietly while she half-watched it and half-scrolled aimlessly through messages she still hadnât answered.
The emotional exhaustion had settled into her bones now.
Not sadness.
Not even stress anymore.
Just the strange emptiness after surviving something enormous.
Her phone buzzed against the couch cushion beside her.
Lando: coming up.
Her stomach betrays her with a small, traitorous flip.
She exhales through her nose. Doesnât rush. She never rushes things that matter.
Louise crossed the apartment quickly, barefoot against hardwood floors, and opened the doorâ
To Lando standing there holding two paper takeout bags and looking unfairly good in a grey hoodie and black joggers
For one second neither moved.
Then his face softened into that smile.
That one.
Small. Crooked. Quietly devastating.
âHi.â
Something in her chest pulled tight instantly.
âHi.â
He lifted the bags slightly.
âI brought nuggets.â
Louise stared at him.
ââŠWhat?â
âYou said after the race that all you wanted was to eat nuggets and fries, scroll on your iPad and take a nap.â He shrugged one shoulder.
âYou remembered.â
âLouise,â he says, stepping inside, mock-offended, âI remember everything you say, specially if it is about food.â
She closes the door behind him. The apartment settles again, quieter now that heâs in itâlike the space recognizes him, adjusts.
Lando stepped into the apartment slowly, the takeout bags crinkling softly in his hands as Louise closed the door behind him.
The quiet hit him first.
Not empty silence.
Lived-in silence.
The low murmur of a television playing somewhere deeper in the apartment. The faint hum of the air conditioning. Music from the marina drifting weakly through the windows several floors below.
After months of paddocks and airports and crowded hospitality units, it felt almost unnaturally calm.
Louise took the food from him while he slipped off his shoes near the entrance.
âYou actually bought enough for six people,â she observed, peeking into one of the bags.
âI panicked.â
âAt the ordering screen?â
âAt the possibility of you being hungry.â
She laughed softly under her breath and the sound loosened something in his chest immediately.
God.
Heâd missed that.
Not hearing her laugh through microphones or across garages or crowded rooms.
Just⊠this version.
Small. Private. Real.
Lando followed her into the kitchen area while she unpacked containers onto the counter. The apartment lights stayed low except for the city glowing gold through the floor-to-ceiling windows and the blue wash of her forgotten iPad on the couch.
And then his eyes landed on it.
The trophy.
Not the World Championship trophyâthe real one wouldnât be handed out until the FIA Galaâbut the Abu Dhabi winnerâs trophy from Sunday still sat on the kitchen island like it had simply been dropped there on the way inside and forgotten afterward.
It looked strangely out of place in the apartment.
Too polished.
Too ceremonial.
The dark blue and gold reflected softly beneath the warm kitchen lights beside a half-empty glass of water, her headphones, and an open packet of ibuprofen.
Victory reduced to clutter.
Lando slowed slightly as he walked toward the counter, his gaze catching on it instinctively.
Because even if it wasnât the championship trophy, it still meant the same thing now.
The final race.
The final points.
The moment everything tipped permanently in her favor.
Louise noticed him looking before he said anything.
âI still donât know where to put it,â she admitted, shifting the takeout bag higher against her hip. âIt looks ridiculous everywhere.â
Lando smiled faintly as he stepped closer to the kitchen island.
âItâs kind of terrifying.â
âIt genuinely watches me at night.â
âI believe that.â
He reached out absentmindedly, fingers brushing lightly along the case. The metal caught the city lights from outside the windows in sharp gold reflections.
Then something occurred to him.
âWait,â he said, glancing up at her. âRed Bull let you keep the original?â
Louise looked almost offended.
âObviously.â
Lando blinked once.
âYou negotiated that into your contract?â
âYeah.â
A laugh escaped him immediately.
âThatâs psychotic.â
She shrugged casually, opening one of the paper bags.
âI wanted them.â
Lando leaned one hip against the counter, eyes drifting back toward the trophy.
âHow did they agree to that?â
Louise finally smiled properly then.
Not polished media-trained smiling.
Real amusement.
âI took advantage of the fact everyone thought it was a distant hypothetical.â
He laughed immediately.
âThatâs evil.â
âItâs strategic.â
âYou basically conned Red Bull.â
âThey signed the paperwork willingly.â
Lando looked back at the trophy again.
Then at her.
âYou really believed youâd need that clause,â he said more quietly.
Louise paused briefly at the change in his tone.
Then shrugged one shoulder.
The shift in his tone caught her attention immediately.
Less teasing now.
More curious.
âWellâŠâ A small smile tugged briefly at the corner of her mouth. âAt first I thought it would just be something to pass the time during the meeting.â
Lando frowned slightly.
âWhat?â
âThe negotiations.â She laughed softly through her nose. âYou know how painfully boring contract meetings get. Three hours discussing sponsorship percentages and media obligations and whether you can wear a different watch brand in public.â
âThose really are horrific.â
âSo I got bored.â
Lando watched her carefully now, already smiling because he could practically picture it.
Louise. Restless in some glass meeting room. Leg bouncing under the table while executives discussed legal details around her.
Dangerous environment, honestly.
âWhat did you say exactly?â he asked.
Her smile widened slightly.
âI asked if I could keep the original trophies.â
Lando barked a laugh immediately.
âJust like that?â
âPretty much.â
âAnd they agreed?â
âWell noânot immediately.â She leaned back against the counter now, visibly more amused by the memory. âAt first they thought I meant one or two. Like sentimental value.â
âBut you meant all of them.â
âObviously.â
He shook his head, grinning despite himself.
Louise continued opening sauces calmly like she wasnât describing one of the most absurd contract negotiations heâd ever heard.
âSo then legal started explaining why teams normally keep originals and drivers get replicas and I justâŠâ She lifted one shoulder innocently. âKept insisting.â
âYouâre exhausting.â
âThatâs not even the worst part.â
Lando narrowed his eyes immediately.
âOh no.â
âThe more they tried to explain why it didnât matter,â she admitted, laughing softly now, âthe more I wanted to win the argument.â
âOf course.â
âSo eventually they just wentââshe lowered her voice into a rough imitationâââFine, if you start winning enough races for this to become financially annoying, weâll deal with it later.ââ
Lando lost it completely then, laughing hard enough to lean briefly against the counter.
âOh my God.â
Louise was laughing too now, warmth filling the kitchen in soft overlapping bursts.
âAnd now Red Bull has to watch you leave every weekend carrying the originals out like stolen property.â
âContractually protected stolen property.â
He shook his head slowly in disbelief.
He laughed quietly and reached out, brushing his fingers absentmindedly along the edge of the trophy before looking back at her.
The sight of it beside her still did something strange to him.
Not jealousy.
Not resentment.
Just this overwhelming awareness that she had actually done it.
All those years fighting to be taken seriously and now the entire sport would have to say her name beside the word champion forever.
Louise cleared her throat lightly, suddenly aware of how long heâd been looking.
âYou can stop staring at it.â
âIâm staring at you, actually.â
âRight,â she muttered. âWell. Let's eat before the fries get cold.â
They settled onto the couch a few minutes later with too much food spread across the coffee table between them.
Louise tucked one leg beneath herself, oversized hoodie sleeves swallowing her hands while she balanced the open nuggets container on her lap. Lando sat beside her close enough that their knees bumped occasionally whenever one of them shifted.
The television played quietly in the background.
Neither paid much attention to it.
For a while they just ate.
And the simplicity of it felt strangely emotional after the kind of season theyâd survived.
No media.
No engineers.
No expectation to perform.
Just Louise stealing fries from his carton despite having her own.
âYou realize,â Lando said eventually, watching her shamelessly reach over again, âI specifically bought you separate fries.â
âThese taste better.â
âThey are literally identical.â
âYou donât know that.â
He shook his head, smiling into his drink.
The warmth of the apartment softened him slowly. Days of constant adrenaline and disappointment and celebration finally starting to drain from his body now that he was here.
With her.
Louise glanced sideways at him after a few quieter minutes.
âI hated not seeing you properly after the race.â
The honesty of it settled softly between them.
Lando looked over.
She still wasnât looking at him.
Just tracing idle circles against her fries carton with one fingertip.
âYeah,â he admitted quietly. âMe too.â
Her throat tightened unexpectedly hearing him say it so easily.
Lando looked down at the food in his hands for a second before speaking again.
âThe party was weird.â
âWhich one?â
âAll of them.â
She huffed a laugh.
âFair.â
He glanced sideways toward her.
âI kept thinking I should feel worse.â
Louise finally looked at him then.
And there it was.
The thing neither of them had fully touched yet.
The championship.
The point difference.
The fact sheâd won and he hadnât.
Lando leaned his head back against the couch.
âOne point is annoying.â
âLandoââ
âNo, Iâm serious.â He smiled faintly. âIf it had been twenty points I couldâve blamed myself properly. But one?â He shook his head. âThatâs just rude.â
Louiseâs expression softened painfully.
âIâm sorry.â
His eyes snapped toward her immediately.
âDonât do that.â
âWhat?â
âApologize for winning.â
She looked down briefly.
âItâs hard not to when I know how much you wanted it.â
The room quieted around them.
Television voices blurred into background noise.
Lando watched her for a long moment before setting his food down on the coffee table.
Then more softly:
âLou.â
She looked up.
âIâm happy for you.â
The sincerity in his voice nearly undid her on the spot.
Because she believed him.
That was the problem.
After everything, after losing by one point, she still believed he meant it completely.
Lando shifted slightly toward her on the couch.
âYou know what I felt watching you after the race?â
âWhat?â
âProud.â
Her face folded instantly into something small and overwhelmed.
And after a moment, just when she thought the conversation was finally over, she heard him mumble:
âMy champion.â
Louise immediately pointed a fry at him.
âNo.â
Lando blinked.
âNo?â
âYou cannot call me that.â
His mouth twitched.
âWhy?â
âBecause last year you made me promise not to call you champion because it âmade you fell weird'.â
He laughs, hands up. âFirst of all, I didnât say weird. I said âunmanageable.ââ
âSame thing.â
âAnd second,â he adds, stepping closer, voice dropping conspiratorially, âI never said I wouldnât say it.â
She narrows her eyes. âThatâs illegal.â
âPretty sure itâs allowed when you actually are the champion.â
She huffs, shoving another fry into her mouth. âI hate you.â
He just smiles, smug and fond, like heâs already won this round.
Eventually the food disappeared down to abandoned crumbs and empty cartons.
Lando rinsed sauce from his fingers at the sink while Louise shoved containers into the trash beneath the counter. Their movements slipped around each other naturally nowâsmall unconscious adjustments, trading space without needing to ask.
When everything was finally cleaned, the apartment looked calmer again.
Lando drifted toward the couch first, exhaustion settling heavier into his limbs now that the evening had slowed properly. He dropped onto the cushions with a long exhale, one arm stretching along the backrest as he tipped his head backward briefly against the fabric.
Louise didnât follow immediately.
She moved toward the balcony doors instead, drawn there absentmindedly like sheâd forgotten he was even watching.
Landoâs eyes tracked her automatically.
The city beyond the glass glowed gold and silver against the dark marina water below. Abu Dhabi looked almost unreal from this high upâsharp towers lit against the night sky, reflections rippling across the sea in broken streaks of light.
Louise slid the balcony door open halfway.
Warm air drifted inside immediately.
She stepped out barefoot onto the balcony tiles, one hand resting lightly against the railing as she looked over the city below.
Lando watched her standing there in oversized clothes with the city glowing behind her and felt that same strange ache againâ
âYou know,â he said eventually, voice quieter now, âyouâre allowed to enjoy it.â
Louise glanced back over her shoulder.
âI am enjoying it.â
âNo, I mean properly.â He held her gaze from across the room. âNot just surviving it.â
Her expression softened slightly at that.
Then she looked back out over the marina again, fingers tapping absently against the balcony railing.
âI think Iâm still catching up to it,â she admitted.
The wind lifted strands of hair across her face and she tucked them absently behind her ear without looking away from the skyline.
Landoâs chest tightened unexpectedly at the sight.
God.
He missed this too much during the season.
Not even necessarily touching her.
Just being near her without anyone watching. Without radios in their ears or mechanics waiting nearby or cameras documenting every glance.
Just Louise standing on a balcony at midnight while he sat on her couch feeling more at peace than he had in weeks.
She finally looked back toward him again.
âYouâre staring.â
âCome here,â he says.
âI am here.â
âLou.â
The look he gives her makes her huff under her breath, but she pushes herself off the balcony anyway. Slow steps. Tired steps.
The second she reaches the couch, Lando catches her wrist and pulls.
Louise lets out a surprised noise as she practically falls into his lap, knees landing on either side of him.
âWoaââ
His hands settle automatically at her waist, thumbs brushing absent circles against the fabric of her hoodie. And immediatelyâ he feels it.
That restraint in her again.
That thing she does after every massive moment where she starts making herself smaller inside it. Like if she downplays it first, nobody else can weaponize it against her later.
His thumbs keep moving slowly against her waist while he studies her face.
âYouâre doing it again,â he says quietly.
Louise avoids his eyes almost immediately. âDoing what?â
âThat thing where you act like this was just⊠normal.â
âIt wasnât normal,â she says with a shrug. âIt was just a good season.â
Lando actually lets out a short disbelieving laugh.
âA good season.â
She gives him a defensive look. âWhat?â
âLouise.â His voice drops. âYou were insane this year.â
She grimaces faintly like she physically dislikes hearing it phrased that way.
âNot that insane,â she mutters, glancing away. âThe car was good.â
Lando actually stares at her.
Then he laughs again, disbelieving this time.
âThe car was good.â
âIt was!â
âLouise.â
âWhat?â
âYou won the World Championship.â
âBarely.â
âYou won it.â
âBy one point.â
âStill counts, Louise.â
She opens her mouth immediately, already preparing some argument about margins and luck and how technically it came down to Abu Dhabi strategy calls and late safety cars and fifteen other variables sheâs probably memorized by now.
Lando gets there first.
âAnd you know exactly where that point came from too.â
Her expression changes instantly.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
Lando sees it and grins like heâs been waiting all night for this specific conversation.
âSilverstone sprint.â
Louise groans immediately, dropping her forehead against his shoulder.
âYou know what killed me?â he says. âThe fact you sounded completely calm.â
âI was calm.â
âYou sounded like a Bond villain.â
That gets a reluctant laugh out of her.
He looks at her now with something almost disbelieving still lingering in his face.
âOne point,â he says quietly. âThat sprint gave you one point over me.â
Louise swallows.
âAnd you fought for it like people were trying to take it away from you.â
Because they were.
They both know they were.
Lando leans closer, forehead brushing hers gently.
âSo no,â he murmurs. âYou did not barely win the championship.â
His gaze locks onto hers.
âYou dragged that final point across the line yourself.â
Her expression softens a fraction.
âHey,â he says quietly. âForget Iâm your boyfriend for a second.â
Lando grins despite himself, but his thumb brushes softly along her cheek again before his expression turns serious.
âListen to me.â
The room settles with it.
The marina lights flicker gold against the windows behind her, catching in the brown of her eyes.
âForget all of that,â he says softly. âForget Iâm biased. Forget I was your rival this year.â
She watches him carefully now.
âWhat you didâŠâ He exhales once through his nose, almost searching for words heâs not used to saying out loud. âLou, itâs unprecedented.â
Her eyes immediately drop away again.
His fingers tighten just slightly against her face until she looks back at him again.
âNo. Donât do that.â
âIâm not doing anything.â
âYou are.â His voice gentles. âYou always do this when people praise you.â
âBecause people exaggerate.â
âThey donât exaggerate you.â
That lands.
He sees it in the way her mouth stills.
In the way her shoulders stop bracing quite so hard.
Lando shakes his head slowly, gaze fixed on hers.
âYouâre absurd,â he says simply. âActually absurd.â
âLandoââ
âNo, seriously.â He almost sounds frustrated by it now, overwhelmed in a way he hasnât been able to articulate all season. âDo you understand what this looked like from the outside?â
She opens her mouth.
Closes it.
Because honestly?
Probably not.
âYou went wheel-to-wheel with drivers whoâve had teams built around them since karting,â he says. âYou handled media tearing you apart every other week. You survived all the shit off trackââ
His jaw tightens briefly there.
The headlines.
The scrutiny.
The constant questioning of whether she deserved her seat, her pace, her place.
Every mistake amplified. Every radio message dissected. Every emotion turned into discourse.
And still she won.
âYou survived all of that,â he repeats quieter now, âand then every Sunday you still showed up and drove like nothing could touch you.â
Louise blinks hard once.
âYou make it sound dramatic.â
âItâs Formula One. Everythingâs dramatic.â
His forehead falls lightly against hers for a second, exhausted affection bleeding through every word now.
âI genuinely cannot think of anyone who comes close to what you did this year.â
The honesty in his voice is what undoes her.
Her hands slide up into his hair absentmindedly, fingertips scratching softly at his scalp. Familiar. Grounding.
âI justâŠâ She exhales shakily. âI donât like acting like Iâm better than everyone.â
âYou donât.â
âIt feels arrogant.â
âYou know whatâs arrogant?â Lando says. âMax telling everyone he could win blindfolded.â
She laughs despite herself.
âHe probably could, to be fair.â
âNot helping my point.â
âBut you?â Lando continues. âYou donât flaunt anything. Ever. Half the time I want to shake you because you refuse to acknowledge youâre one of the best drivers on the grid.â
Her nose wrinkles slightly.
âOne of?â
âThere you go.â
She smacks his shoulder lightly and he grins, catching her hand before she can pull it away.
Then, softer:
âYou donât have to make yourself smaller to make other people comfortable, Lou.â
The words sit between them.
Heavy because he means them.
Landoâs arms tighten around her waist as she settles closer against him, exhaustion finally winning over adrenaline.
Louise stays tucked against him for a while after that.
Neither of them speaks.
The kind of silence that only exists between two people who know each other too well to fill every space with noise.
Landoâs fingers drift lazily along her spine beneath the fabric of her dress, slow and absent-minded. Outside, fireworks crack somewhere over the marina, faint through the glass.
World Champion.
His world champion.
Louise shifts slightly in his lap, lifting her head just enough to look at him.
âCan I remember youâre my boyfriend now?â she asks quietly.
Landoâs mouth twitches.
âAnd whyâs that?â
A tiny smile pulls at her lips.
âBecause I want to kiss you.â
Something in his expression immediately softens.
Like every sharp edge in him gives up at once.
âYeah?â he murmurs.
She nods once.
Thatâs all the warning he gets before she leans and kisses him.
It starts soft.
Slow.
Almost careful.
Their mouths fitting together with the familiarity of something theyâd both been deprived of for months without fully realizing how badly. Too much tension all season. Too many cameras. Too many moments stolen in passing between garages and paddocks and media obligations.
Lando exhales against her mouth immediately, one hand sliding higher along her back as he kisses her deeper. Louise hums softly into it, fingers curling into the hair at the nape of his neck.
His grip tightens at her waist, pulling her more firmly against him until she lets out a quiet breath at the feeling of him beneath her.
One hand slides down his chest, fingertips brushing beneath the open collar of his shirt, and Landoâs head tips back slightly at the contact.
âCareful,â he warns softly.
âWhy?â
âYou know why.â
That innocent look she gives him is absolute bullshit, and they both know it.
"Do I?â she asks lightly.
Lando actually laughs once under his breath, shaking his head before catching her jaw again and kissing her harder this time.
His hand slides from her waist to her thigh, fingers pressing into soft skin where her dress has ridden higher. Louise shifts instinctively closer at the touch, and the movement pulls a low sound from his throat before he can stop it.
âLou,â he murmurs.
She kisses the corner of his mouth instead, then his jaw.
âWhat?â she whispers.
Dangerous girl.
He closes his eyes briefly as her lips brush beneath his ear.
âYou canât do this after a whole season of behaving,â he says hoarsely.
Her laugh is soft against his skin. âDid you behave?â
âI behaved enough.â
âDebatable.â
Lando opens his eyes just in time to catch the smug little smile on her face before he kisses it away again.
This time thereâs nothing careful about it.
His hands slide fully around her hips, dragging her flush against him as he deepens the kiss until she breaks with a quiet gasp. The sound goes straight through him.
âChrist,â he breathes.
Louiseâs cheeks are flushed now, eyes darker than before.
He stares at her for a second like heâs trying to decide whether he has any self-control left at all.
The answer is very obviously no.
Landoâs hands slide beneath the fabric of her hoodie almost impatiently now, fingertips dragging against warm skin as he kisses her again and again like he still hasnât fully convinced himself sheâs here.
That this season is over.
That sheâs his to touch without cameras waiting outside the garage doors.
Louise arches into him instinctively when his palms travel higher, and the tiny sound that leaves her throat nearly snaps the last thread of restraint he has left.
âFuck,â he breathes against her mouth.
Clothes becomes an obstacle after that.
One heâs suddenly very uninterested in tolerating.
He breaks the kiss just long enough to tug the fabric upward, eyes dragging over every inch of skin revealed to him with open, unhidden awe.
Louise laughs softly at the look on his face even as she lifts her arms to help him pull the fabric over her head completely.
âThere,â she murmurs. âHappy?â
Lando stares at her for a second.
Then another.
âNot even remotely.â
The honesty of it makes heat rush to her cheeks.
His hands are already back on her before she can answer, palms roaming over bare skin like heâs reacquainting himself after deprivation. Her waist. Her ribs. The curve of her hips.
Every touch grows rougher by the second.
Not careless.
Just desperate in the way only months of tension can make someone.
Louise kisses him again first this time â hard enough to push him backward slightly into the couch â and thatâs what finally does it.
Landoâs grip tightens around her thighs abruptly before he shifts.
Fast.
One second sheâs in his lap, the next sheâs on her back against the couch cushions with Lando over her, pinning her there with his weight and a grin thatâs gone sharp around the edges.
She lets out a startled laugh that dissolves immediately into a breathless sound when he kisses down her throat.
His movements have lost their usual patience now.
Thereâs still affection in them â there always is with him â but itâs tangled tightly with adrenaline and exhaustion and wanting. The kind that built all season long in glances across paddocks and brushed hands in motorhomes and arguments that ended with both of them pretending not to notice the tension underneath.
Now it finally has somewhere to go.
Lando sits back just enough to yank his own shirt over his head in one frustrated motion, tossing it somewhere across the room without looking.
Louiseâs gaze drags shamelessly down his chest.
âYou know,â she says breathlessly, âsecond place really works for you.â
He barks out a laugh.
âCareful. I can still put you on the floor.â
âYou wouldnât.â
âLouise,â he says, leaning down close again, âIâve spent months watching you walk around paddocks looking like this. Donât test me tonight.â
The look she gives him after that is pure challenge.
Pure Louise.
And Lando loses whatever composure remained.
The kiss turns messy after that.
Open-mouthed and breathless and constantly interrupted by laughter or gasps or muttered swearing against skin. Hands everywhere at once. Her nails dragging across his shoulders hard enough to leave marks. His mouth at her throat while she arches against him, both of them moving with that reckless sort of urgency that comes after surviving something immense together.
The adrenaline still hasnât left their systems.
Maybe it never will.
The couch creaks softly beneath them as Lando shifts lower just enough to pull at the remaining fabric still separating them. Louise laughs shakily when he nearly gets caught in his own pants trying to tug it off faster.
âOh my God,â she breathes between kisses. âRelax.â
âI literally canât.â
That gets another laugh out of her â quick and helpless before it dissolves into a gasp when his hands slide over newly bared skin.
Landoâs gaze drags slowly over her, openly wrecked by the sight.
âYouâre unreal,â he says quietly.
Louise immediately tries to hide her face with her hand. âDonât look at me like that.â
âCanât help it.â
The moment he slides inside her and brings them together properly, Louise lets out a broken sound against his shoulder, her entire body reacting instantly to the closeness of him.
Skin against skin now.
Landoâs eyes shut hard for a second at the feeling.
âJesus Christ.â
One of her legs hooks instinctively around his waist as he settles closer, both of them still adjusting, still breathless from too many emotions crashing together at once.
And then they move.
The room fills with uneven breathing and quiet moans and the creak of the couch shifting beneath them as months of tension finally unravel all at once.
The couch shifts beneath them again as Lando crowds closer, one hand braced beside her head while the other slides along her thigh, pushing higher with growing impatience.
Every movement between them feels slightly uncoordinated in the way desire and exhaustion often do â too much adrenaline still burning beneath their skin, too many emotions colliding all at once.
Neither of them seems interested in slowing down enough to fix it.
Louiseâs breathing turns uneven the second his mouth finds her neck again, head tipping back against the cushions as his kisses grow rougher, less precise. Heâs everywhere at once â hands at her waist, her ribs, her thighs â touching her like heâs trying to make up for every restrained glance across a paddock this season.
âLandoââ she breathes, cut off immediately when he kisses her again.
He swallows the sound like heâs starving for it.
His body presses fully against hers now, warm skin and quick heartbeats and restless movement, and Louise can physically feel the tension vibrating through him.
Her fingers slide through his hair again, tugging just enough to pull another rough sound from his throat. The reaction goes straight through her, earning a breathless laugh against his mouth.
Landoâs forehead drops briefly against hers as he catches his breath, both of them warm from exertion already, tangled together across the couch cushions in a mess of discarded fabric and restless limbs.
âYou have any idea,â he says between breaths, âhow many times I wanted to do exactly this after a race?â
Louiseâs lips brush his again. âWhich race?â
âAll of them.â
She laughs softly, the sound dissolving into a gasp when he shifts against her again, movements growing more instinctive now. Less teasing.
Lando kisses her slower then â finally slower â like the adrenaline spike is beginning to soften into something deeper. His thumb brushes along her cheek while he catches his breath, eyes fixed on her with that same overwhelmed look heâs worn all night.
Lando braces one arm beside her head as he presses closer again, forehead dropping briefly against hers while he catches a broken breath.
âYou know,â he says hoarsely between kisses, words stumbling slightly with the movement between them, âas reigning world championâŠâ
Louiseâs eyes flutter open lazily.
âMhm?â
âItâs technically my responsibility,â he continues, voice strained now, âto pass the championship down to you properly.â
That pulls an actual laugh from her this time â soft and helpless and immediately interrupted by a breathy sound when he shifts against her again.
âYouâre definitely passing something to me,â she manages between uneven breaths.
His hand slides up her waist slowly, deliberately this time, fingertips grazing along her skin while he watches her reaction like he already knows exactly what itâll be.
âSneaky girl.â
The room feels overheated now, their breathing loud in the quiet suite between distant fireworks and the muffled pulse of music somewhere below the hotel.
Landoâs forehead rests against Louiseâs as he moves with growing urgency, both of them long past composed now. Every breath he takes breaks apart against her skin; every sound she makes seems to pull him further under.
Her fingers tighten in his shoulders suddenly.
âLanââ The word catches into something softer, shakier. âIâm close.â
He looks at her immediately.
Actually looks at her.
And whatever he sees there makes something tender flicker through all the desperation in his expression.
âYeah?â he murmurs, breathless.
Louise can barely manage a nod.
The city lights outside the windows smear gold across the marina behind him, blurred by motion and exhaustion and the fact that she genuinely canât focus on anything except him right now.
Lando brushes her hair back from her face with trembling fingers, kissing her once â deeply, slowly despite everything â before his mouth drifts to the corner of her jaw.
âYou can let go for me,â he says softly.
Another kiss.
âMy champion.â
Louiseâs body arches instinctively closer as she comes apart with a broken sound against his shoulder, fingers gripping him tightly. Lando groans low at the feeling of her clenching around him, his own rhythm faltering for half a second before picking up again immediately, rougher now, less controlled.
âFuck,â he breathes.
His hand grips her waist hard enough to steady both of them, forehead pressed against hers while his breathing turns uneven and wrecked.
Thatâs what draws him over too.
The sight of her flushed beneath him.
The sound of her trying and failing to catch her breath.
The realization â still somehow unbelievable â that after everything this year, theyâre here together.
Landoâs eyes squeeze shut briefly as he follows her over the edge with a strained groan against her skin, holding her close enough that neither of them can tell where one body ends and the other starts for a moment.
Afterward, neither moves.
The suite goes hazy and quiet around them except for the sound of their breathing slowly evening out again.
Louise stares vaguely past his shoulder toward the windows, where Abu Dhabi glows in soft streaks of gold and white.
âI genuinely,â she says weakly after a moment, âcanât tell if the cityâs blurry or if I am.â
Lando laughs quietly against her neck, still catching his breath himself.
âProbably both.â
His hand slides gently into her hair then, smoothing it back from her damp forehead with surprising softness considering how frantic theyâd been seconds earlier.
Louise melts further into the couch beneath him, fingertips tracing lazy lines up and down his arm while they come back down together slowly.
For a while neither of them moves at all.
The city keeps glowing outside the windows, blurred gold reflecting against the marina, but inside the suite everything has gone warm and hazy and slow.
âYou alive?â he murmurs eventually, voice rough with exhaustion.
Louise makes a sleepy sound into the couch cushion that could generously be interpreted as maybe.
Lando grins immediately.
âOh my God,â he says softly. âWas I that good?â
That earns him a weak, offended noise from beneath him.
âDonât get cocky.â
His laugh rumbles low in his chest against her.
âToo late,â he says. âAlready lost the championship. Egoâs all Iâve got left.â
Louise cracks one eye open just enough to glare at him.
Lando smiles to himself at the sight of her â completely melted into the couch now, hair a mess, cheeks still flushed, wearing that dazed expression she only ever gets around him when sheâs too exhausted to keep her walls fully up.
With a low exhale, Lando finally pushes himself upright.
The loss of warmth makes Louise complain under her breath.
âThere it is,â he says smugly, climbing reluctantly off the couch. âDependency.â
Louise grabs the nearest cushion and throws it at him.
Lando catches it easily, laughing.
âViolence. Wow.â
âYouâre ridiculous.â
âAnd yet,â he says, tossing the cushion back onto the couch before walking toward her again, âyouâre looking at me like you want a second round.â
Her face heats instantly.
Louise watches through half-lidded eyes as he stands and starts vaguely searching around the suite for clothes.
He bends to retrieve his pants from somewhere near the coffee table, stepping around the aftermath theyâve left scattered across the room.
âWhere are my clothes?â she asks weakly.
âNo idea.â
âYou took them off.â
âAnd you seemed very supportive of the decision at the time.â
She snorts softly despite herself.
âOh,â he says. âSolution.â
Before Louise can ask what he means, he picks his own hoodie up and tosses it lightly toward her.
It lands over her face.
Thereâs a muffled, deeply offended:
âLando.â
He laughs immediately.
âSorry, sorry.â
Louise lifts one lazy arm in his direction without moving from the couch.
âHelp.â
Still smiling, he walks back over and gently pulls the hoodie down from her face.
âYour arm,â he says.
âI canât find the sleeve.â
âItâs literally right there.â
Eventually he manages to tug it down properly over her, curls static-clinging slightly around her face afterward.
Lando pauses for a second just looking at her.
And because he physically cannot stop touching her for more than thirty seconds apparently, he reaches down to brush her hair back gently.
âž»
The night before the FIA Gala, sheâs curled into her bed at the hotel, knees tucked to her chest, hoodie pulled up like armor. The city glows outside the window. Lando is on the couch of his hotel room, probably pretending he isnât refreshing his phone every five minutes.
They connect on FaceTime.
Neither of them speaks for a few seconds too long.
âHey,â he says finally. âYouâre quiet.â
She swallows. âI need to tell you something before you hear it from⊠literally everyone.â
"Okay.."
âIâm not driving for Red Bull next year.â
His stomach drops. He sits up straighter. âOh.â
She breathes in. Out.
âI signed with Aston.â
The words land softly. Carefully. Like glass set down instead of dropped.
He blinks.
ââŠOkay.â
Silence.
Then, gently, âFull-time?â
âNo.â
He waits.
âOnly Sprints.â
His brows knit together, confusion overtaking shock. âWhy?â
She shifts, hugging one knee tighter. âBecause I donât want my life to collapse into one thing. Because I donât want to disappear inside expectations. Because I love racingâbut I love other things too.â
He watches her closely. Not searching for cracks. Just understanding.
âRed Bull⊠they wanted more,â she continues quietly. âMore me. Bigger me. Louder me. And I just⊠donât want that.â
âAnd Aston gives youâŠ?â
âRoom,â she says immediately. âTo learn. To engineer. To sit in rooms that donât have cameras. To do my other sports without feeling like Iâm betraying something.â
He exhales slowly, nodding. âYou already decided.â
âYes.â
A beat.
âI was scared youâd think it meant I didnât care enough.â
His expression softens completely. âLouise. You care in a way that scares people.â
She laughs weakly. âThatâs not reassuring.â
âIt is,â he says. âBecause youâre choosing yourself. Not running away.â
Another pause.
âAre you okay?â he asks.
She thinks about it. Then nods. âI am. Are you?â
He smilesâsmall, proud, a little sad. âIâm in.â
She exhales like sheâs been holding that breath for months.
â
The announcement drops the next morning.
A few hours before the gala.
WORLD CHAMPION STEPS BACK
GENIUS OR WASTE?
DOES SHE EVEN RESPECT IT?
Louise steps into the press room calm.
Not rehearsed-calm. Not guarded.
Just⊠steady.
Her hair is tied back, neat and practical, the way sheâs always worn it when she wants nothing to get in the way. She sits, folds her hands in her lap, shoulders relaxed like this is just another conversationâbecause to her, it is.
Cameras click immediately.
A low mechanical rain.
Microphones surge forward, jockeying for space, foam covers brushing one another like nervous animals.
She doesnât flinch.
Doesnât adjust her posture.
Doesnât scan the room.
She looks straight ahead.
âIâm not driving for Red Bull in 2027,â she says evenly.
No pause for effect. No hedging.
Just truth, delivered cleanly.
A ripple moves through the roomâpens lifting, heads tilting, a few murmurs cut off mid-breath.
âThey wanted me to grow bigger. Do more. Be more visible.â She shrugs lightly, like itâs neither an insult nor a compliment. âAnd thatâs valid. It makes sense for them.â
She breathes in once.
âBut I wanted to keep following my gut.â
A hand shoots up.
âWas that a difficult decision?â
She smilesânot wide, not performative. Soft, settled.
âNo,â she says. âThe difficult part was realizing I didnât owe anyone a version of myself that doesnât fit.â
That lands harder than anyone expects.
Someone shifts in their chair.
A pen stops scratching.
Another microphone pushes forward, closer now.
âAnd you're moving to Aston Martin?â
âYes.â She nods. âTheyâre giving me space. Time. The chance to learn the car beyond just driving it.â
She leans forward slightlyânot defensive, just engaged.
âTo be part of development. Data analysis. Engineering conversations. I enjoy understanding what makes performance possible, not just executing it.â
A beat.
Thenâalmost like sheâs letting herself be honest for a second longerâ
âAnd honestly,â she adds, mouth quirking, âI just wanted to drive a car designed by Adrian.â
A few laughs break out, surprised and genuine.
The tension loosens. Just a little.
Then the question theyâve all been circling finally comes.
âSo⊠are you stepping away?â
Louise shakes her head immediately.
âNo,â she says. âIâm stepping wider.â
The room stills.
She continues before anyone can interrupt.
She talks about horsesâshow jumping, dressage. The discipline, the patience, the way progress canât be rushed without consequences. About shootingârifles, pistols. Focus. Breath control. Precision under pressure.
Thenâ
âThe Olympics.â
That gets their attention back fast.
âIf I hadnât missed so many competitions last year for racing,â she says plainly, like sheâs stating a logistical fact, âIâd already be qualified. Next year, I have a real shot.â
The room shifts.
Not buzzâsomething quieter.
Respect, maybe.
Someone mutters, barely audible, wow.
âI love racing,â she continues, voice steady, unafraid of the words. âI care deeply about it. But itâs not my only calling.â
She doesnât rush the next part.
âItâs not my lifeâs singular purpose the way it is for most drivers. And I understand that might upset people.â
She looks straight into the camera now.
Not challenging. Not apologetic.
Present.
âI care. I work harder than most people see. But I care about other things too.â
Silence stretches.
Then, laterânear the end, when the questions softenâa reporter asks, almost gently, if Formula One matters less to her now.
Louise smiles.
Not defensive.
Not explaining herself.
âNo,â she says. âIt just means my life is bigger than one dream.â
The cameras keep rolling.
But the story has already changed.
â
That night, while stylists bustle and champagne waits untouched, Lando scrolls through the reactions.
Some furious.
Some confused.
Some awed.
He stops at one comment, buried deep in the noise:
Sheâs not quitting. Sheâs choosing.
He screenshots it and sends it to her.
A few minutes later, her reply lights up his screen.
Thatâs it. Thatâs the sentence.
And for the first time since she signed the dealâsince she let go of the weight she never asked forâLouise sleeps without dreaming of expectation.
Just space.
The good kind.
âž»
FIA Awards
Heâs already inside. The room hums with expectationâvelvet curtains pooling like shadows along the walls, crystal chandeliers scattering gold light across polished floors, a kind of elegance that feels curated down to the last breath. Itâs the sort of place where people lower their voices instinctively, where even laughter is softened by silk and money and history.
Cameras hover like insectsârestless, waiting.
Lando stands near the aisle, jacket fitted perfectly, posture relaxed enough to look natural, alert enough to look prepared. Heâs half-listening to someone beside him talking about logisticsânext year, schedules, something already moving forwardâwhenâ
The sound reaches him first.
Her laugh.
Bright. Unfiltered. Completely out of place in a room built for restraint.
It cuts through the hum like a bell.
His chest tightens before he even turns.
Then he does.
And the world narrows.
Sheâs in blue.
Not any blue. Not sharp, not demanding. A deep, deliberate shade that holds the light instead of throwing it back. The fabric moves when she doesâliquid, confident, unforced. Clean lines, no armor, no performance. Just her, elevated rather than altered.
Her hair is loose, falling down her back like a decision she didnât overthink. Like tonight didnât require protection.
For one honest second, he forgets how to breathe.
âOh,â he thinks, absurdly.
He straightens his jacket like it might help.
It doesnât.
â
She feels him before she sees him.
That quiet pullâfamiliar as muscle memory, as gravity doing its job.
Then she does see him.
Black suit. Clean cut. Hands in his pockets like heâs trying to ground himself. Jaw set just a fraction too tight, eyes tracking her like heâs forgotten what subtlety looks like.
Heâs failing beautifully at looking normal.
Her smile softens before she can stop it.
She lifts her hand in a small wave.
Not for the cameras.
Not for anyone else in the room.
Just for him.
He mirrors it immediately, the corner of his mouth lifting, something warm and unguarded slipping through before he can stop it.
Some things donât need words.
â
Her name is called first.
Rookie of the Year.
Applause breaks outâfull, generous, the kind that doesnât feel like obligation. Louise blinks at it like itâs still a surprise, shoulders lifting slightly as if sheâs bracing for impact.
She stands. Accepts the award with a soft smile, nodding toward the audience like sheâs grateful they showed up for her life.
Then again.
Woman of the Year in Motorsport.
She laughs under her breath this time, hand lifting briefly to cover her mouthânot disbelief exactly, more like are you sure? Her eyes shine, overwhelmed in a way she doesnât try to mask.
She speaks simply. Thanks the people who carried her when she couldnât carry herself. Doesnât make it bigger than it is.
The room listens.
Really listens.
Then itâs his turn.
He rises smoothly, walking onto the stage with Oscar, Zak, Andreaâshoulder to shoulder, familiar weight. Constructorsâ Champions. The trophy is heavy, solid, reassuring in his hands. Muscle memory takes over. Professionalism. Poise.
But his eyes flick to her.
Once.
Twice.
Every time.
Then the room stills.
A pauseâlonger than the others. Intentional.
Like everyone knows this moment deserves space.
Formula 1 World Driversâ Champion.
The sound that follows is different.
Not just applause.
Reverence.
Louise stands slowly, almost carefully, like the moment might tip if she moves too fast. The trophy is placed in her hands and suddenly it feels heavy in a way no object ever hasâdense with meaning, with history, with every mile that led here.
She speaks without flourish.
Without performance.
Grateful. Honest. Grounded.
She thanks her family. Her team. The people who believed before she did. She doesnât shout. She doesnât declare. She simply is.
Somewhere in the audience, Lando claps until his palms sting, chest tight with something he doesnât bother to name.
Pride.
Awe.
Loveâof the game, of the season, of the girl who rewrote it.
He doesnât look away until she does.
And when she finally glances out into the crowd and finds himâ
Just for a secondâ
She smiles.
Not big.
Not public.
Just enough.
â
Theyâre guided like chess pieces into position.
Lights. Marks on the floor. Instructions fired rapid and sharp.
Zak Brown appears with a grin that means trouble.
âI owe you something,â he says to Louise, already reaching into his jacket pocket.
She narrows her eyes. âNo.â
âYes.â
He shows her the clown nose.
Lando groans somewhere behind them. âOh my god, he actually remembered.â
Zak does not care.
Cameras go feral.
The picture happens quickly.
Louise holding the biggest trophy of the night. Zak beside her, grinning, clown nose firmly in place. Someone else snaps it from the side.
Within minutes, itâs everywhere.
ZAK BROWN IS A MAN OF HIS WORD
THIS IS THE FUNNIEST CHAMPIONSHIP PHOTO EVER
F1 IS HEALING
Then someone says it.
âJust like last year.â
They donât hesitate.
Lando takes the Constructorsâ trophy.
She holds the Driver's trophy.
They stand closer now.
No space for pretending.
The shutter clicks.
And something settles into history.
â
The Internet; Immediately
THIS IS CINEMA.
The glow-up is INSANE.
From F2 + F1 champs to THIS???
Red string theory is REAL.
Theyâre literally mirroring last year.
Someone frame this forever.
â
The dinner room is softer than the ceremony hall.
Lower ceilings. Candlelight instead of spotlights. The kind of elegance that doesnât demand attention but earns it. Conversations blur together into a low, pleasant humâsilverware, laughter, the occasional clink of glasses raised in celebration.
Louise sinks into her chair like her body is only just realizing itâs allowed to rest.
She sets the trophy carefully beside her plate, angled inward, as if itâs something personal rather than public. The metal catches the light and throws it back gently, no longer blinding.
Lando sits beside her.
Not across. Not politely spaced.
Beside.
For a few seconds they donât say anything.
They just exist in the quiet after the storm.
She exhales first.
âI think this is the first time today my shoulders arenât touching my ears,â she says.
He huffs a laugh. âYou shouldâve told me. I wouldâve carried them for you.â
She turns, studying him. The suit. The loosened tie. The way he looks calmer now that thereâs nothing left to prove.
âYou did,â she says. âAll year.â
Something flickers in his eyes at that, but he doesnât look away.
Then Louise nudges the trophy gently with her knuckle.
âHey,â she says. âLook here.â
He leans in automatically.
She turns the base just enough so the engraving catches the candlelight.
Her name.
Carved clean. Permanent.
Right there.
Next to his.
Lando goes still.
He doesnât smile immediately. Doesnât joke. He just traces the letters with his finger, slow and reverent, like touching something fragile.
âLooks⊠real,â he murmurs.
âIt is,â she says quietly. âI checked. Multiple times.â
He swallows. âI remember when mine went in. I thought they spelled it wrong.â
She laughs softly. âDid you cry?â
âNo,â he says instantly.
She raises an eyebrow.
ââŠOkay, maybe a little,â he admits. âBut only because my mum cried first.â
âThat counts,â she decides. âShared crying negates embarrassment.â
He smiles thenâsmall, genuine.
They sit like that for a momentâclose enough that their arms brush when they move, far enough that it still feels intentional.
âYou know,â he says, glancing around the room, âeveryone keeps asking if itâs weird. Being one point apart. Ending like this.â
She hums. âIs it?â
He considers. âNo. Just⊠intense.â
She nods. âI think if it was anyone else, it wouldâve been unbearable.â
He looks at her then. Really looks.
âAnd with me?â
She meets his gaze without flinching. âIt felt honest.â
That lands somewhere deep.
He lets out a breath he didnât know he was holding. âYeah,â he says. âThatâs the word.â
A photographer passes by, pauses, snaps a candid shot of them leaning in toward the trophy, heads close together.
Louise notices the flash and groans lightly. âGreat. Another one.â
âThe internetâs going to have thoughts,â he says.
She smirks. âThey always do.â
She reaches for her glass, then pauses.
âThank you,â she says suddenly.
âFor what?â
âFor racing me fairly,â she says.Â
He doesnât answer right away.
Then: âThank you for not letting me get comfortable.â
Summary: What starts as a season-long project turns into something much bigger: signatures, stories, and proof that she belongs among the people she once looked up to.
Word Count: 1.8k
Masterlist
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By the time Louise became an official driver in 2025, the grid learned two things very quickly.
One: she was serious about racing.
Two: she was serious about collecting helmets.
It starts quietly.
â
Carlos Sainz is easier than expected.
She approaches him in the paddock with a notebook under her arm.
âI have a system,â she explains.
He raises an eyebrow. âOf course you do.â
She flips the notebook open. Names. Checkboxes. Tiny doodles of helmets next to each one.
âIâm trading with everyone,â she says. âYouâre high priority.â
He laughs. âWhy?â
âBecause you have taste.â
He considers her for a beat. âDeal. But I want a message inside.â
She nods. âYouâll get a good one.â
When Carlos opens his helmet weeks later, he's taken a back by the words.
He keeps it on a shelf in his office.
â
Charles doesnât even pretend to resist.
âYou donât have to explain,â he says, already handing her his helmet. âI saw the spreadsheet.â
She beams. âYou noticed!â
âI respect the commitment,â he adds. âAlsoâyouâre signing mine in French.â
She beams. âOui oui.â
The photo of them exchanging helmets on the harbor balcony goes viral.
Monaco swap hits different.
â
Lewis is ceremonial about it.
They sit on a pit wall after FP2, helmets between them like artifacts.
âThis matters to you,â he says, not a question.
She nods. âI knew you. I wanted to race like you. I didnât know Iâd get to race with you.â
He smiles softly. âThen weâll make it meaningful.â
He signs his helmet carefully. She does the same, hands shaking just a little.
When she leaves, Lewis watches her go, then looks down at her helmet in his hands.
âSheâs going to change things,â he murmurs.
â
In Singapore, the heat is brutal. Everyoneâs exhausted.
Alex Albon sits next to a big fan, towel over his head.
She nudges him with her elbow. âTrade?â
He peeks out. âRight now?â
âYes.â
He laughs. âYouâre relentless.â
âConsistent,â she corrects.
They swap in silence, too tired for ceremony.
Later, Alex posts a photo of his shelf at homeâLouiseâs helmet nestled among the rest.
This one feels special.
â
Fernando makes her work for it.
âYou know,â he says, arms crossed, âyouâll never get all of them.â
She tilts her head. âWatch me.â
He studies her, then chuckles. âFine. But I want yours last. When youâve won something big.â
She considers. âDeal.â
They shake on it.
â
Esteban Ocon spots the bag and immediately groans.
âNo,â he says, shaking his head. âAbsolutely not.â
Louise smiles sweetly. âToo late. I already put Estie bestie in permanent pen.â
He laughs despite himself. âYou planned this?â
âI plan everything.â
He signs hers with exaggerated flair. Inside his helmet, she writes:
Thanks for always racing like it matters.
Later, Esteban admits to a journalist he keeps it in his living room.
âI donât even know why,â he says. âIt just⊠feels important.â
â
Pierre Gasly makes it a whole production.
He insists on a photo shoot. Lighting. Angles. A fake dramatic pause.
âHelmets are personal,â he declares. âThis is a moment.â
Louise plays along, bowing when they exchange.
When the photo hits Instagramâboth of them mid-laugh, helmets raised like gobletsâthe caption reads:
Exchange culturel đ«đ·đ€đ§đ·
The comments lose their minds.
â
Max doesnât wait for her to ask.
He tosses his helmet onto the bench next to her during debrief.
âYouâre doing the thing,â he says flatly.
She blinks. âYou noticed?â
âI notice everything,â he replies.
âYou sure?â
He looks at her then. Really looks.
âYou earned it,â he says.
She signs hers carefully. No jokes. No doodles.
Just her name.
He nods once. Approval granted.
â
Valtteri Bottas is cheerful about it.
âHelmet trading?â he asks. âAbsolutely. I have a shelf problem anyway.â
She laughs. âIâll add to it.â
He signs his with a smiley face. She adds one back.
Later, he posts a photo of his helmet wall.
Louiseâs is right in the center.
â
Gabriel squints at her helmet.
âThis is heavy,â he says.
She nods seriously. âThatâs the thoughts.â
He snorts. âI like it.â
They swap quickly, no ceremonyâbut later she finds his message inside hers:
He runs a hand over her helmet before handing his over.
âYou know,â he says, âkids back home are watching you.â
She swallows. âI hope Iâm doing it right.â
He smiles. âYou are.â
She writes in Spanish. Carefully.
â
George Russell pretends not to care.
âSure,â he says. âWhy not.â
But when she hands hers, signed and dated, he pauses.
âHuh,â he mutters. âDidnât think Iâd like that.â
He likes it a lot.
â
Nico HĂŒlkenberg is last-minute.
She nearly misses him.
He catches her by the elbow. âWait. I donât want to be the one you forgot.â
She laughs. âIâd never.â
They trade under the lights, quiet and quick.
â
Ollie plays it casual.
âHelmet swap?â he says, like heâs asking to borrow a pen.
âNo pressure,â Louise replies, equally cool.
They trade. Quick. Clean.
Then he looks inside hers and freezes.
ââŠDid you draw a tiny bear?â
She nods solemnly. âFor branding.â
He laughsâfull, unfilteredâand shakes his head.
âThatâs going on my shelf,â he says. âFront row.â
â
Arvid doesnât talk much.
He just hands his helmet over after a race, sweat still drying.
She understands that language.
They sign without ceremony.
Before he leaves, he pauses.
âYou race angry,â he says. Not a criticism. An observation.
She meets his eyes. âYou too.â
He nods.
Mutual recognition achieved.
â
Liam already knows the drill.
âAbout time,â he says when she approaches. âI was wondering how long youâd make me wait.â
She scoffs. âI had a list.â
âI know,â he says. âI was watching the order.â
They swap easily, teasing like old teammates.
Inside his helmet, she writes:
Youâre louder than you think. Thatâs a good thing.
He smirks when he sees it. âTook long enough to someone to notice.â
â
Oscar doesnât joke.
He treats the exchange like something important from the start.
They sit down for it
âThis year was⊠a lot,â he says carefully.
She nods. âYeah.â
When he hands his helmet over, he hesitates.
She understands without asking what he means.
â
Lance surprises her.
Heâs gentle with the helmets. Focused.
âYou know,â he says, âpeople underestimate how much this stuff matters.â
She smiles. âYeah. They do.â
He signs neatly.
She adds a small star inside his.
âFor luck,â she explains.
He nods once. Appreciative.
â
Kimi vibrates.
Like, physically.
âThis is so cool,â he blurts out. âSorry. Iâm trying to be normal.â
âDonât,â Louise says immediately. âNormal is overrated.â
He laughs, cheeks red, and nearly drops her helmet.
Inside his, she writes:
Keep that joy. Itâs faster than fear.
He texts her later: I read it before bed.
She smiles at that.
â
Franco thanks her twice.
Once before. Once after.
âFor including me,â he says softly.
She frowns. âYou were always included.â
He smiles at that.
Inside his helmet, she writes in Spanish:
Esto es sĂłlo el comienzo.
This is just the beginning.
â
By the time it gets to Lando, thereâs already a small crowd.
Phones are out. Cameras are rolling. Everyone senses something.
Lando hands his helmet over with both hands, mock-serious.
âBe careful,â he says. âItâs very fragile.â
Louise squints at it.
âYou? Fragile?â
She lifts it, immediately exaggerates the weight.
âOh my god,â she says. âNo wonder your neck is thick.â
She turns it over, inspecting it, then looks at him.
âYour head is massive.â
âItâs proportional.â
âIt is not.â
She slides it on.
The helmet swallows her.
The padding barely touches her cheeks. The visor drops halfway down her face and stops, like itâs confused.
She tilts her head side to side.
âI can fit like three of my heads in here,â she says, voice muffled but crystal clear through the mic. âAll this space and not a single thought inside.â
The people around them burst out laughing.
Lando opens his mouth to respondâ
âand then freezes.
Because thatâs the moment he really sees it.
Her in his helmet.
The way the neon frames her eyes.
The way his name curves around the side of her head.
The way something so intimately his suddenly looks like it belongs to her.
For half a second, he doesnât move.
Doesnât blink.
Doesnât joke.
Someone later zooms in and slows the footage down.
Frame by frame.
You can see it:
The exact instant his smile falters.
The tiny inhale.
The way his hands twitch like he almost reaches for her and stops himself.
Louise doesnât notice at first.
She taps the side of the helmet.
âDo you echo in here?â
âYes,â Lando says automatically. Then quieter, âA lot.â
She laughs, takes it off.
âConfirmed,â she says. âToo big.â
It explodes.
âWHY DID HE STOP BREATHINGâ
âReplay it. Replay it again.â
âThat man just saw his future.â
âShe wore his helmet and he DIED.â
âAll this space and not a single thought inside is CRAZY.â
Edits appear within minutes.
4K slow-motion.
Zoomed-in eye tracking.
Side-by-side comparisons of him watching other drivers wear his helmet versus her.
Someone captions it:
âThatâs not jealousy. Thatâs recognition.â
Another:
âStop why are they looking at each other like thatâs not a helmet thatâs a ring.â
Louise sees it later that night, curled up with her iPad.
She rewatches the clip once.
Twice.
Then she pauses it.
Zooms in on Landoâs face.
ââŠHuh,â she murmurs.
She texts him.
Lou:Â Why did you glitch?
Lan:Â I did not.
Lou:Â You did. Internet agrees.
Lan:Â Internet doesnât know anything.
Lou:Â Internet knows you stopped existing for a sec.
Thereâs a long pause.
Then:
Lan:Â You looked good in it.
Lou:Â Itâs too big.
Lan:Â Still.
She smiles, presses her lips together, feels that familiar warmth bloom.
Across the world, fans replay the moment again and again.
But only Lando knows exactly what it felt likeâ
to see his name, his helmet, his space
finally fit the person it was always waiting for.
â
The championship is done. The paddock is soft again.
Fernando finds her near the garages, helmet already in hand.
âYou won,â he says. âSo.â
She grins, pulls hers from the bag. âLast one.â
â
After everythingâafter the title, the photos, the chaosâshe lays them all out again.
Some signed with jokes. Some with weight. Some with nothing but names.
Lando watches her arrange them on the floor of the apartment, sitting cross-legged like a kid with trading cards.
âYou actually did it,â he says softly.
She nods. âThey all said yes.â
He smiles. âOf course they did.â
She picks up the last oneâFernandoâs.
The deal fulfilled.
She slots it into place.
Perfect.
She leans back on her hands, surveying the collection.
Iâm sorry but who said it was okay to make me cry like that đđ that chapter completely broke me in a good way
Your writing is so good
Sorry, my bad đ should have given y'all a warning. But thank you so much for your message it makes my day seeing you guys come talk about the story â€ïž