Oh, Hi There!

just a girl with some serious obssesion in radom stuff

[lostfireflie]

Series:

No Title

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 doesn’t demand attention — she calculates and recalibrate.

This is what happens when speed meets stillness — and two people built for pressure find something steady in each other.

!Reader:

Neurodivergent!

Athlete!

Driver!

Brazilian!

Famous!

AO3

[lostfireflie]

No Title - Blueprints

Lando Norris x Louise Levine (Original Character)

Summary: Testing ends. Flights begin. Distance becomes routine again. But while Louise throws herself into the season ahead, Lando starts working on something that grows one careful decision at a time.

Word Count: 7.9k

Notes: This chapter actually spans through a few months (also time bent how long constructions actually take cause Lando was in a hurry) But the next one will pick up from end of testing/beginning of the season.

Masterlist

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Pre-season testing arrives the way it always does: too loud, too early, and already exhausting before the sun properly clears the horizon.

The paddock hums like a machine warming up—transporters aligned in military precision, garage shutters half-open, generators thrumming low beneath the chatter of radios. Coffee steams in paper cups clutched like lifelines. Bahrain air hangs dry and sharp, the sky barely gold at the edges.

And for the first time in a while—

They are careful.

No shared arrival.

No easy proximity.

No lazy shoulder bumps or quiet jokes muttered into each other’s collars.

Louise steps out of the Aston Martin garage first.

Green suit over her waist, fireproof tucked cleanly in, hair braided tight down her back. She has a tablet under one arm and a headset looped casually around her neck. To anyone watching, she looks like exactly what she is—

Focused. Self-contained.

Five minutes later, Lando appears from the opposite direction, papaya bright against the neutral paddock tones. His suit is already zipped, fireproofs peeking at the collar. He walks with that half-loose, half-contained energy that belongs to drivers on testing days.

Separate paths.

Same gravity.

They don’t look at each other.

But the paddock does.

—

People notice.

Engineers glance once, then twice. PR reps exchange subtle looks. A camera operator lingers half a second longer than necessary as Louise crosses the pit lane toward the hospitality unit.

Journalists hover like birds recalculating migration patterns.

It’s not dramatic.

It’s… curious.

A recalibration of rules.

They’ve been around each other for years in various capacities. Competing. Collaborating. Crossing paths in paddocks and debrief rooms. But now there’s a new variable. A new headline.

They aren’t just two drivers who know each other well.

They’re something else.

And the paddock treats it like a regulation change.

—

Louise feels it before she can name it.

Not hostility.

Not even judgment.

Just… recalibration.

Her phone buzzes in her hand.

She doesn’t even need to look to know who it is.

Still, she does.

Lando: You cannot walk around with your suit half unzipped over your waist.

Her mouth twitches.

She doesn’t slow her stride as she types back.

Louise: Why not???? Literally everyone does it? You do it!

Lando: Yeah but I don’t have your waist.

She snorts before she can stop herself, biting her lip to contain it. One of the officials looks up briefly, confused.

“Sorry,” she murmurs.

She types back with her thumb.

Louise: Perv.

Buzz.

She exhales slowly before checking again.

Lando: Damn you’re hot.

She closes her eyes briefly.

Counts to two.

Three.

She types.

Louise: LANDO.

Across the paddock, under the papaya awning, Lando stands with an engineer who is earnestly walking him through suspension geometry changes.

“—so if we soften rear anti-roll just slightly, we can—”

“Yeah,” Lando nods, eyes very much not on the diagram.

His phone is angled just out of sight against his thigh, thumb hovering with all the subtlety of a guilty teenager.

Buzz.

He glances down.

Louise: Don’t you have work to do?

He grins to himself.

Doesn’t even try to deny it.

Lando: Maybe. But maybe my girlfriend is just too distracting.

He risks a quick look across the paddock.

Finds her immediately.

She’s walking toward the Aston garage now, headset in place, expression reset to neutral professionalism. From a distance, she looks untouchable. Focused. Sharp.

Untethered.

Except he knows better.

She doesn’t reply to that one.

He watches her tuck her phone away without looking back.

“Lando?”

He blinks.

“Sorry—yeah. Rear anti-roll.”

The engineer raises an eyebrow but continues.

—

Inside the Aston garage, the car sits low and purposeful under fluorescent lights.

Louise slides on her headset as she approaches the front wing assembly.

“Morning,” she says to the aero group clustered around a laptop.

“Morning,” one replies. “We’ve got revised ride height targets from overnight sims.”

She nods, stepping closer. “Okay.”

No one asks about him.

No one mentions headlines.

Here, she is not a relationship.

She is data.

They walk through the plan for the morning run—correlation laps, aero rakes fitted, flow-vis paint ready. She scans the setup sheet quickly, pen tapping once against the tablet.

“Let’s not overcorrect the rear stiffness,” she says. “Track’s still clean. I don’t want false positives.”

An engineer nods. “Copy.”

The car fires up, engine bark echoing off the garage walls.

She watches the telemetry screens as it rolls out, expression calm. Controlled.

Outside, a camera lens catches her profile through the open garage door.

Inside, she doesn’t notice.

Or doesn’t care.

As soon as she's off the car, she slips out the back of the garage and heads straight to the engineers’ room—glass walls, dimmer lights, a bank of screens waiting.

Safe.

Analytical.

No microphones.

—

Lando doesn’t get the same luxury.

The moment he steps into the media pen, the questions start before he’s even fully stopped walking.

“Lando, how does the new car feel compared to last year?”

“Early days,” he replies smoothly. “Balance is promising. Still learning a lot.”

“Do you think McLaren can fight at the front consistently this season?”

“That’s the goal. But testing’s about correlation, not lap times.”

He’s good at this. Polished. Controlled.

Then—

“And how are things going personally? Big news over the winter.”

There it is.

He smiles—small, measured.

“Yeah. Good. Very good.”

“Does it change anything between you two, all the track action?”

His expression sharpens slightly—not defensive, just precise.

“No. When the visor’s down, it’s racing. Always has been.”

“Have the teams had conversations about boundaries?”

He laughs lightly. “We’re professionals.”

There’s an undercurrent in that answer. A reminder.

Across the paddock, in a dimmer room filled with data streams and delta times, Louise watches sector splits update in real time.

She doesn’t see the cameras.

She doesn’t hear the questions.

She’s already deep in brake trace overlays, comparing throttle application between baseline runs.

“Front’s still washing mid-corner,” she mutters into her mic as the car completes another lap. “Look at Turn 10. We’re losing rotation again.”

One of the performance engineers nods, adjusting the display.

“We can shift the diff entry.”

“Two percent,” she says immediately. “No more.”

Outside, speculation builds like heat haze over the pit lane.

Inside, she’s arguing with a graph.

By the end of the week, testing finishes the way it always does—

No trophies.

No standings that mean anything.

Just terabytes of data, fine desert dust in every seam of fabric, and the particular exhaustion that settles in your bones after pretending it’s only “just testing.”

The paddock begins to dismantle itself with ruthless efficiency. Freight crates reappear. Hospitality units empty. Mechanics move like ghosts through half-lit garages.

Louise’s bags are already packed.

The U.S. is calling—loud, bright, unavoidable.

—

The hotel is quieter than the paddock had been. Not silent—Bahrain never really is—but the kind of quiet that settles after everyone has spent three straight days talking over engines and radios. Air conditioning hums somewhere overhead. A luggage trolley rattles faintly down another corridor. The carpets soften every footstep until the entire floor feels suspended outside of time.

Louise has already showered. The smell of race fuel has finally disappeared beneath shampoo and hotel soap, her braid replaced by damp hair that falls in loose waves over one shoulder. She sits cross-legged on the bed in an oversized hoodie and sleep shorts, laptop open beside her while clothes lie in careful piles across the room, , one suitcase already zipped while another lies open on the foot of the bed, half-filled with riding clothes for the weeks ahead. America means different weather, different horses, different time zones, and she’s halfway through convincing an overstuffed packing cube to cooperate with the zipper when her phone lights up.

Lando: Open the door.

She smiles before she’s even standing.

—

Louise barely had time to open the door fully before he reached her.

His arms circled her waist immediately, gathering her against him with the kind of familiarity that had become second nature over the last months. His chin settled over the top of her head with an exaggerated sigh, like he’d just completed an exhausting expedition.

She steps aside.

“You coming in?”

“I was hoping you’d invite me.”

“You literally invited yourself.”

“I did.”

He closed the door behind him before crossing the room in three easy strides.

His eyes drift instinctively toward the open suitcases.

“You’ve started.”

“I leave in…” She glances toward the clock. “…three hours.”

He shakes his head once. “I hate this bit.”

She doesn’t ask which part he means. She already knows—the airports, the calendars, the constant arithmetic of figuring out what country the other is waking up in.

“I don’t mind you travelling.—I like that you have your thing.” He exhales slowly. “I just don’t like saying goodbye every other week.”

She walks over and stops between his knees where he’s sitting on the bed.

His hands find her hips automatically.

Like muscle memory.

Like breathing.

“You’ll be busy,” she says quietly.

“So will you.”

“You’ll have races.”

“You’ll have horses and riffles.”

She smiles.

His thumbs trace absent circles against the fabric of her hoodie.

“I wish…” he starts.

Then stops.

“What?”

He shrugs once.

“I wish teleportation was real.”

She laughs softly.

“That’s your solution?”

“Yeah.”

“I think it’s achievable.”

She smooths down the stubborn curl sticking up at the front of his hair. He catches her wrist before she can pull away, pressing a kiss into the inside of her palm, then draws her forward until her knees settle against his. His forehead rests lightly against her stomach, his arms circling her waist without urgency, simply holding on.

“I’ll miss you,” he says into the fabric of her hoodie.

She smiles, threading her fingers through his hair. “I know.”

“No, like…”

He tips his head back to look at her.

“I’m going to become unbearable.”

“You already are.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

He huffs out a laugh.

She brushes her fingers through his hair, slower this time.

“I’ll miss you too.”

His shoulders loosen almost immediately. Not because hearing it fixes anything. Because sometimes missing someone hurts a little less when you know the feeling travels both ways. He reaches for her again, one hand sliding higher until it cups the back of her neck. His thumb disappears beneath the damp strands of her hair.

“Come here.”

“I’m already here.”

“Closer.”

“I don’t think physics—”

He doesn’t let her finish.

He simply pulls her down.

She bends instinctively, one hand bracing against his shoulder before his mouth finds hers.

The kiss isn’t rushed.

It isn’t desperate.

It’s slow in the way only people who know exactly how the other person kisses can manage—familiar enough to linger, unhurried enough to memorize.

When they finally separate, he keeps his forehead against hers.

“Call when you land.”

“You’ll probably be asleep.”

“I’ll call when I wake up.”

“I’ll probably be asleep.”

She smiles.

“Terrible timing.”

“Awful.”

“We’ll figure it out.”

“We always do.”

He kisses her again.

And then once more, because every time she smiles against his mouth it feels impossible to leave it alone.

“Lando,” she laughs, the word barely escaping before he steals another quick kiss.

“What?”

“I still have to pack.” She laughs, trying to escape his arms.

“Mhm.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

She laughs again, and that’s apparently enough encouragement for him to tug gently at her waist until she loses her balance.

With a tiny squeak, she tumbles onto the mattress beside him.

“Lando!”

“What?”

“I need to finish.”

He looks toward the bed, toward the open suitcases, then back at her.

“…Fine.”

She blinked.

“Fine?”

“I’ll help.”

“Come on then, Mr. Useful.”

Five minutes later, he’s kneeling on the carpet, rolling shirts with surprising precision.

He reaches across the bed for another jumper before folding it neatly and fitting it into an empty corner of the suitcase.

“There.”

“You actually are helping.”

“I told you.”

“I thought you were lying.”

“I was.”

She looks at him.

“…What?”

“I only started helping because I realized it’d get you finished faster.”

She raises an eyebrow.

“So then…” He zips the suitcase closed with a satisfied flourish. “…I get you back.”

He stands, brushing imaginary dust from his hands.

“Mission accomplished.”

“My hero.”

He carried the finished case toward the door while she made one final sweep around the room for chargers, earrings, forgotten toiletries.

Lando looked as Louise let herself fall backward onto the bed for all of three seconds before following, collapsing beside her hard enough to make the mattress bounce.

She laughed as he immediately rolled toward her.

“I knew this was worth waiting for.”

He tucked an arm beneath her shoulders, pulling her until her head rested against his chest almost automatically. She shifted closer without thinking, one leg tangling lazily with his.

—

Now he’s lying half across the mattress, one arm tucked beneath Louise’s shoulders while she laughs quietly into another kiss.

“So this was your plan.” she murmurs against his lips,

“The whole time.”

She smiles, brushing her nose against his.

He kisses her again before she can say anything else, slow and unhurried, savoring the fact that she's there.

Her fingers wander absentmindedly through the hair at the nape of his neck.

His hand traces lazy circles against her side.

Neither of them moves.

Neither of them wants to.

Then—

Her phone begins vibrating across the bedside table.

Neither reacts.

It buzzes once.

Twice.

Lando kisses the corner of her mouth.

“Ignore it.”

She laughs into his shoulder.

“It’s Charlotte.”

She finally grabs the phone, glancing at the screen.

She accepts the call.

“Hi, Charlotte.”

“Lou, car’s downstairs whenever you’re ready,”

Louise glances toward the clock.

“I’m heading down now.”

She ends the call and lets the phone fall onto the bed beside them.

For a moment, neither of them says anything.

Then Lando drops his forehead onto her shoulder with another theatrical sigh.

“I don’t like Charlotte.”

Louise laughs, scratching lightly through the hair at the back of his head.

“You love Charlotte.”

“I do. But I don’t like that she reminded you that time exists.”

She smiles, wrapping both arms around him for one last hug.

“I have to go.”

“I know.”

He says it much more quietly this time.

—

Lando doesn’t let her carry a single thing.

The moment she reaches for the larger suitcase, he’s already lifting it upright.

“I can—”

“I know.”

“The backpack at least—”

“No.”

“The carry-on?”

“Nope.”

She watches him hook the backpack over one shoulder, pull the suitcase behind him with one hand, and balance her cabin bag effortlessly in the other.

“…Show-off.”

“I’m providing a service.”

“You’ve become a bellboy.”

“I prefer gentleman.”

“You charged me in kisses.”

“It was a fair price.”

She rolls her eyes, smiling despite herself as they make their way through the quiet hotel corridors.

The closer they get to the lobby, the more the world starts creeping back in.

People checking out.

Hotel staff wheeling luggage carts across polished marble.

The low murmur of conversations in half a dozen languages.

Their little bubble shrinks with every step.

By the time the lift doors slide open into the lobby, they’re standing a comfortable foot apart again.

Close enough to belong together.

Far enough not to announce it.

Charlotte spots them almost immediately.

She straightens from where she’d been leaning against a pillar, coffee in one hand, sunglasses perched on top of her head.

The grin that spreads across her face is immediate.

“Oh,” she says, taking in the sight of Lando pulling Louise’s suitcase while wearing her backpack over one shoulder. “This is adorable.”

Louise sighs before Charlotte can continue.

“Don't start.”

Charlotte circles them once with exaggerated curiosity, like an inspector examining evidence.

“So…” she hums. “Is this a new McLaren initiative?”

Lando blinks.

“What?”

“‘Emotional Support Driver.’”

Louise presses her lips together.

Charlotte gestures toward the luggage.

“They’ve really expanded your responsibilities.”

“I volunteered.”

“I can see that.”

Lando chuckles quietly, setting the suitcase beside the waiting car.

She softens for a moment before the teasing returns.

“So,” she says, dragging the word out. “This is it. Big dramatic goodbye. Should I film it or are we pretending you two are emotionally unavailable today?”

Louise doesn’t even glance at her.

“If you film anything, I’m ending your contract.”

Charlotte gasps theatrically.

“Threats. In public.”

Lando laughed.

“We’re not doing a dramatic goodbye,” he says.

“Aw,” Charlotte replies, deeply disappointed.

The driver loaded the final suitcase into the boot.

Suddenly there wasn’t another excuse left.

He steps forward.

They don’t kiss like they’re in a movie.

They don’t cling.

She simply reaches up, smooth and quick, brushing her lips against his.

Soft.

Certain.

“I love you.”

Louise smiled in that effortless way that always made him wonder how she’d become so intertwined with every ordinary part of his life.

“I love you too.”

His expression softens in the quiet way it always does when he says it so casually, like it’s the easiest truth in the world.

Then she turns toward the car.

Back straight.

Shoulders squared.

Steps confident.

She doesn’t look back.

He watches her anyway.

Watches her duck into the back seat.

Watches the driver close the door.

Watches until the car eases away from the curb.

His phone vibrates almost instantly.

Louise:

Stop staring.

He huffs a laugh, already typing.

Lando:

Can’t. You’re dramatic even when you’re not trying.

Three dots appear.

Disappear.

Then—

Louise:

Go study your data.

He slips his phone back into his pocket, still smiling to himself.

—

Lando’s room feels too quiet when he gets there.

He lets himself in with the familiar beep of the keycard, drops his backpack beside the desk, shrugs off his jacket and rolls his shoulders.

For a minute he simply stands there. Then his eyes drift toward the bag. Without really thinking, he crouches down and unzips it.

The sketchbook she gave him slides out, its cover is already worn smooth around the edges, pages beginning to soften from being opened and closed almost every day.

He settles into the chair by the window before opening it.

Past the pages he'd gone over a million times before, quick studies of race cars, bits of suspension geometry, the sketches of rings he'd shown Louise. Into the most recent used ones.

The same house appears over and over again. Not identical. Evolving.

At first it had just been little notes scribbled into the margins. Move this wall. More light. A wider doorway.

A glass extension wrapping around the back of the house. A sunroom that catches light even in winter. Bedrooms—more than they need now. Space for family. His. Hers. Maybe someday, something in between. A covered terrace. The garden stretching further into the page. He flips again. A swimming pool. Crossed out. Redrawn somewhere else. Subtle. The kind you almost don’t notice unless you’re looking for it.

A barbecue area. Long table. Late evenings.

He hadn’t even realised how often he’d been coming back to it.

Week after week.

Whenever he found ten quiet minutes between simulator sessions, flights or race weekends, somehow he’d always ended up sketching the same place.

Their house. Not replacing it. Growing it.

His thumb lingers on the edge of one page.

And suddenly—

⸻

“Can I ask something I’ve been wondering about?” Kylie’s voice echoes back through his memory. “How do you actually… live together?”

He remembers laughing. Looking at Louise. Both of them answering at exactly the same time.

“It’s… Something.”

The room had dissolved into laughter.

Then the conversation had settled into something softer.

Talking about Monaco.

About living five minutes apart.

About flipping a coin whenever they were both home.

“Sometimes literally,” Louise had admitted with a grin.

Then Jason had asked when that stopped being enough.

He remembers glancing at Louise before answering.

“We finally admitted travelling back and forth was becoming… a bit ridiculous.”

He could still hear Jason’s immediate groan.

“Oh, that’s awful.”

“So we started looking,” he’d said.

“For what?”

Louise had smiled.

“A house in England.”

“Halfway between Aston and Woking.”

Then Kylie had smiled.

“It sounds… very ordinary.”

“It’s pretty much perfect.”

Lando glances at her. “Pretty much?”

She grins — already halfway to chaos. "We could use a pool.”

“You realise we live in England?”

“Heated,” she’d answered immediately.

“Expensive.”

“I did think about building one at first—just, like, hypothetically— but it’d be way too much work, and then I was like— Nope. I’m tired just thinking about it. The backyard its fine the way it is.”

Then Kylie had looked at him.

“What about you?”

He’d thought about it longer.

“I do sometimes wish we had a bit more room to invite everyone over… my family… her family… friends… to come and stay with us for a while, not just pass by.”

⸻

Lando’s eyes return to the sketchbook.

His fingers slowly trace the pencil lines already covering the page.

He hadn’t been designing a different house at all.

He’d been trying, without even realising it, to keep the one they loved.

Just… make enough room for whatever came next.

His pencil finds the page again.

This time there isn’t any hesitation.

Only another line.

Then another.

—

The next morning arrives quietly.

No alarms. No cameras. Just the soft, gray light creeping through the hotel curtains and the low hum of a building waking up around him.

Lando is already awake.

He exhales slowly.

Then he starts making calls.

They’re quiet calls. Efficient ones. The kind that don’t sound romantic at all if anyone were listening in.

A solicitor first. Then an agent. Then a brief conversation with someone who speaks in careful clauses and doesn’t ask why.

By midmorning, there’s a map open on his laptop. Two parcels of land outlined in clean, clinical lines. One familiar. One newly highlighted.

By afternoon, the plot next to the property is his.

He stares at the confirmation email longer than necessary, not smiling, not celebrating—just letting it settle into something real.

He doesn’t tell anyone.

Not her. Not his family. Not even his best friend who would absolutely lose his mind in the best way.

Not yet.

Some things are better built slowly.

—

The rest of the day becomes a blur of intentional curiosity.

He reaches out to people who build things meant to last.

Engineers who ask the right questions before offering solutions. Architects who talk about light and flow instead of square meters. Contractors who listen when he says this needs to feel like it’s always been there.

He sketches between calls. Erases. Sketches again.

And, inevitably—

He hesitates.

Then, casually—so casually it almost fools him—he opens his messages.

Lando:

sends photo

Hotel pool question. What’s your favorite type?

The photo is harmless. A clean, modern pool at the hotel he’s staying at. Blue water, sharp edges.

Her reply comes fast.

Louise:

Rectangular for swimming.

Organic for lounging.

He stares at the screen, lips pressing together.

Of course she’s already categorized it.

He forwards the message to no one. Saves it mentally instead.

On a random day, between a call about structural load limits and another about geothermal heating, he texts again.

Lando:

Random question—do you remember that flooring at the villa we stayed at that one time?

The one you liked because it didn’t get hot or freezing, but was smooth but still safe when wet?

There’s a pause this time.

Long enough for him to consider that he might’ve pushed it.

Then—

Louise:

Oh! Yeah.

It was bluestone—felt almost matte but not rough.

I think it had a high thermal inertia rating.

Why?

He swallows.

Lando:

Swear I saw it somewhere and couldn’t remember the name.

Thought you might.

A beat.

Louise:

You’re weird.

He smiles.

Lando:

I know.

—

His sketchbook is filled of margins and notes.

Rectangular lane, separate organic section.

Stone composite—non-slip, thermal stable.

Sun exposure winter-safe.

BBQ area downwind.

He closes the book and leans back in his chair, staring at the ceiling.

This isn’t a grand gesture. There’s no announcement, no reveal, no rush.

It’s just… space.

Space for people. For families. For futures that don’t need to be explained yet.

He laughs softly, shaking his head.

Some things, he thinks, are absolutely worth building slowly.

And some things— He looks down at the sketchbook again, at the careful lines and quiet intentions. —are already home, even before they exist.

⸻

Aylesbury sits quiet between races.

Not the loud, curated quiet of a paddock emptied for the night—but the real kind. The kind that hums with wind through hedges and distant traffic that never quite reaches you. Lando drives in early, before the crew arrives, before the day has opinions.

The land is still just land.

Green, uneven, slightly stubborn. The neighboring plot stretches out beside the house like it’s been waiting to be claimed—dew clinging to the grass, earth dark and soft from overnight rain.

He parks, steps out, and stands there for a moment with his hands in his jacket pockets.

No cameras. No schedule breathing down his neck.

Just space.

The house looks the same as always—clean lines, familiar stone, windows catching the pale morning light—but now he sees it differently. Not as a finished thing. As a beginning.

He walks the boundary first, boots sinking slightly into the damp ground. Counts steps without meaning to. Marks corners in his head. The air smells like wet leaves and cold soil, sharp and grounding.

He tries to picture it.

The new wing extending naturally from the existing structure—not louder, not flashier. Just… inevitable. Like it had always been part of the plan, even if no one had drawn it yet.

Footsteps crunch behind him.

“Morning,” says the lead engineer, already flipping open a tablet. “You’re early.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” Lando replies, easy. “Figured I’d walk it.”

The crew gathers slowly—architect, site manager, a couple of people who carry rolled-up plans under their arms like they’re carrying something fragile.

They spread the drawings across the hood of a truck.

Lines. Measurements. Elevations.

Lando leans in, tracing the connection point between the existing house and the new wing with his finger.

“Here,” he says quietly. “This transition—does it feel… forced?”

The architect tilts the tablet, rotates the model. “We softened the join. Same materials. Same sightlines. It should feel like it grew, not like it was added.”

Lando nods, but keeps looking.

“I don’t want it to feel like an extension,” he says. “I want it to feel like the house exhaled.”

There’s a pause.

Then the engineer smiles. “That’s… surprisingly clear.”

They walk the outline next. Stakes in the ground marking what will be walls, windows, doors. Lando steps inside the imaginary space, stops where the sunroom will be, turns slowly.

Light pours in exactly where the model promised it would.

He closes his eyes for half a second.

He can see her.

Barefoot on stone that never shocks her with cold. Morning hair loose. Moving slowly, not because she’s tired, but because she doesn’t have to be fast here. Tea cooling somewhere forgotten.

He imagines her wandering from inside to out, fingers brushing doorframes, grounding herself in the place without thinking about it. The way she does with him—absent, instinctive, real.

“I want the outdoor area to feel held,” he says suddenly, opening his eyes. “Not exposed.”

The site manager nods. “We’ve planned for that. Low walls, wind breaks, greenery that grows in rather than up. It’ll feel enclosed without being closed.”

Lando exhales, something easing in his chest.

They go over the plans one more time. Minor adjustments. A shifted window. A slightly wider threshold because he knows she hates feeling boxed in.

“Barbecue area here?” the architect asks.

“Downwind,” Lando replies instantly. “Trust me.”

They laugh.

When it’s done, when the plans are rolled back up and hands are shaken, the crew heads off to prep the site.

Lando stays.

He sits on the low stone wall bordering the yard and watches the light change. Listens to the quiet.

This place won’t impress anyone scrolling past it online. It won’t scream. It won’t dazzle.

But it will hold.

He imagines her here after a hard day. After travel. After noise. Imagines the space wrapping around her the way he does when she finally stops moving long enough to lean into him.

A place that doesn’t ask anything of her.

His phone buzzes.

A message from her, completely unrelated.

Louise:

Do you think ducks know when they’re being dramatic or is it accidental?

He laughs aloud, the sound echoing softly off the house.

Lando:

Accidental. But committed.

He looks out over the land one more time, committing it to memory.

Soon, it won’t be empty.

Soon, it will be something built with intention, patience, and quiet love.

And when she walks here for the first time—barefoot, unguarded

He wants the space to do what he does best.

Hold her.

—

Charlotte answers on the second ring.

“What did you do.”

Lando smiles despite himself. He’s standing in a quiet airport lounge, phone pressed to his ear, suitcase nudged against his shin, rain streaking down the glass walls behind him like the world is in a hurry without him.

“Nothing,” he says carefully.

Silence.

Not a dropped call. Not interference.

Just Charlotte.

“That’s worse.”

He exhales, long and slow, the way he does before explaining strategy to someone who already knows the answer.

“Okay,” he admits. “I’m… building something.”

Another pause. This one different. Curious instead of suspicious.

“Oh.”

He can hear her shifting, settling in. Probably sitting down. Charlotte never stays standing for conversations that matter.

“Alright,” she says. “Start talking.”

So he does.

Not all at once. Not dramatically. Just pieces.

The land next to the house. The way the space feels too quiet and too loud at the same time. The idea of adding without overwhelming. Of letting a place grow instead of crowd itself.

“The hall connects here,” he says, gesturing even though no one’s watching. “Glass on one side. Not flashy. Just light. And then the wing opens out—guest rooms, a sunroom. Space for… people.”

Charlotte hums. The sound means she’s listening, not interrupting.

“And outside,” he continues, “there’s room for a pool. I know she says she doesn’t care, but—”

“She cares,” Charlotte cuts in instantly.

He smiles. “Yeah. I figured.”

He tells her about the mornings he imagines. Slow ones. No schedules. Bare feet on stone. A place that doesn’t ask questions.

When he finishes, there’s a beat.

Then Charlotte laughs. Soft, incredulous.

“You’re insane.”

“Helpful,” he says dryly.

“No, I mean—” She pauses, and when she speaks again, her voice has shifted. Gentler. Grounded. “That’s very you.”

He leans back against the glass, watching planes taxi in the gray light.

“I just don’t want to get it wrong,” he admits. “I don’t want it to feel like a gesture. Or a surprise she has to perform gratitude for.”

Charlotte doesn’t answer right away.

Then: “You won’t.”

He waits.

“Because you’re thinking about how she moves through space,” she continues. “Not how it’ll look in photos. That’s the difference.”

He lets that settle.

“Can I ask you something specific?” he says.

“Please do. This is my job now, apparently.”

“The pool,” he says. “I know what she told me, but—”

“Make the end deep enough so that she doesn’t touch the bottom when she’s swimming properly,” Charlotte says without hesitation. “She hates it. Breaks her rhythm.”

He closes his eyes.

Of course she does.

“Anything else?” he asks quietly.

“One more thing,” Charlotte adds. “Don’t tell her until it’s real. She hates managing hypotheticals.”

A laugh escapes him. “Got it.”

“You’re doing good,” Charlotte says. “Just… don’t forget to build space for yourself in it too.”

He thinks of the sketches. Of the way the house is starting to feel like a conversation instead of a structure.

“I won’t,” he promises.

They hang up.

Lando stays where he is for a moment longer, phone still warm in his hand, rain tapping softly against the glass.

⸻

Sometimes, between races, Lando goes to Aylesbury.

Not announced. Not dramatic. Just a cap pulled low, GPS rerouting him down familiar roads that are slowly becoming something else. The land looks different every time he arrives—less like a thought experiment, more like a place that’s decided what it wants to be.

The first thing he always does is walk it.

Boots crunching over gravel. The smell of cut wood and damp earth. Steel frames rising where there used to be only air and intention. He stops often, hands on his hips, head tilted, mapping memory onto structure.

Here’s where the sunroom opens.

Here’s where the hallway breathes.

Here’s where she’ll pause without realizing why.

“Morning,” one of the foremen calls, wiping his hands on his jeans.

“Morning,” Lando replies, already crouching to look at the join where old stone meets new foundation.

He asks questions constantly. Not the loud kind. The precise ones.

“How much give is there here?”

“What’s the heat retention like in winter?”

“If someone walks barefoot from inside to outside, will they feel the change?”

The architect meets him halfway across the site, tablet under her arm, ponytail swinging as she keeps pace.

“We adjusted the transition threshold,” she says, pulling up a rendering. “Lower profile. It’ll feel continuous.”

He nods. “Good.”

They stand shoulder to shoulder, staring at a skeleton of beams and light.

“Does it still feel like it belongs to the original house?” he asks.

She smiles. “It doesn’t feel added. It feels… inevitable.”

That word lands somewhere deep.

Sometimes he chats with the workers while they break for coffee. They tease him gently, call him boss even when he asks them not to. One of them points out where the barbecue area will go, joking about who’ll burn the first batch of food.

“Not me,” Lando says easily. “I’m very serious about marinades.”

They laugh.

He stays longer than planned more often than not. Leaves with sawdust on his shoes and the quiet satisfaction of watching something real take shape.

Other times, the work reaches him through a screen.

Emails arrive in neat clusters between practice sessions and flights.

Measurements.

Tile samples.

Heating systems.

Water circulation schematics.

He opens them late at night, hotel curtains half-drawn, city lights blurring outside the window. He reads everything twice. Zooms in. Cross-checks. Asks follow-up questions no one expected from someone who lives half his life at 300 km/h.

Once, he pauses over two near-identical images.

Pool tiles.

Same material. Same finish.

Different undertones—one warmer, one cooler.

He stares at them for a long moment.

Then, on impulse, he texts her.

Lando: random question. which one do you like better?

Two photos follow. Close-ups so tight they’re almost abstract. Just texture and light.

A minute passes.

Then:

Louise: …why am I being asked to choose between what looks like two very polite stones

He smiles.

Lando: humour me. moodboard thing.

Typing bubble.

Louise: okay but this is ridiculous

Louise: left one feels calmer

Louise: right one would annoy me eventually

Another pause.

Louise: why

Louise: are we decorating a secret lair

Lando: you’ll see

Lando: maybe

She sends a thinking emoji. Then:

Louise: left. definitely left.

Louise: also if this is for something important and you picked the right one i would’ve judged you silently forever

He closes his eyes, laughing under his breath.

“Noted,” he murmurs to the empty room.

Later, another message from her arrives.

Louise: also if there’s water involved it should never feel cold for no reason

Louise: that’s just rude design

He forwards the note straight to the architect with a simple: she’s right.

Piece by piece, quietly, the place becomes more than a plan.

It becomes a conversation carried across time zones. A structure built not just from steel and stone, but from attention. From remembering the way she moves. The things she never asks for out loud.

Some nights, he lies back on a hotel bed, sketchbook open on his chest, red pen circling details that don’t exist yet but soon will.

A space that knows her before she arrives.

—

Charlotte has always answered her phone without thinking.

Years of management have trained the reflex into muscle memory—buzz, glance, answer.

So when her screen lights up halfway through lunch and she immediately flips it face-down instead, Louise notices.

Not dramatically.

Just… notices.

They’re sitting outside the stables between training sessions, takeaway containers balanced on the picnic table. The afternoon is warm enough that everyone’s eating outside, riders scattered across the grass while horses graze lazily in nearby paddocks.

Charlotte reaches for her water with just a fraction too much purpose.

Louise narrows her eyes.

“…Who was that?”

Charlotte unscrews the bottle.

“No one.”

“Hm.”

A beat passes.

Then the phone buzzes again.

Once.

Twice.

Three times in quick succession.

Charlotte doesn’t even look.

Which is somehow more suspicious.

Louise slowly lowers her fork.

“Charlotte.”

“Mhm?”

“Your phone.”

“What about it?”

“It’s vibrating like it’s trying to escape.”

“I’m aware.”

“And you’re ignoring it.”

“I am.”

Louise tilts her head.

“…Are you having an affair?”

Charlotte nearly inhales her water.

“What?”

“I’m just eliminating possibilities.”

“There weren’t any possibilities.”

“You’ve ignored three messages.”

“Four,” Charlotte mutters as the phone buzzes again.

Louise gasps theatrically.

“Oh my God.”

Charlotte pinches the bridge of her nose.

“It’s work.”

“You always answer work.”

“I know.”

“So it’s not work.”

“It is.”

“It isn’t.”

Charlotte reaches for another fry with exaggerated calm.

“It is work adjacent.”

Louise blinks.

“…Work adjacent?”

“Mhm.”

“What does that even mean?”

Charlotte chews for a moment, buying herself precious seconds.

“It means it’s… someone asking questions.”

“What kind of questions?”

“The sort that aren’t technically my job.”

“Then why are they asking you?”

Charlotte makes the fatal mistake of glancing toward her phone.

Louise catches it immediately.

“Aha.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You looked guilty.”

“I looked… inconvenienced.”

“You looked guilty.”

Charlotte sighs.

“Lando?”

Charlotte freezes.

Just for half a second.

Half a second is more than enough.

Louise points at her triumphantly.

“I knew it.”

Charlotte picks up her phone at last, more to stop it vibrating than anything else.

The lock screen is mercifully hidden from Louise by the angle of her hand.

She types a quick reply.

Charlotte: She’s literally sitting next to me.

Please stop texting for five minutes.

Almost instantly, another vibration.

Charlotte doesn’t even need to open it.

She already knows it’ll be him laughing.

Louise watches her with narrowed eyes.

“…You’re smiling.”

“I’m not.”

“You smiled.”

“I breathed.”

“You smiled while breathing.”

Charlotte locks the screen again.

“You are becoming impossible.”

“I learned from the best.”

Charlotte laughs despite herself.

“What is he asking you?” Louise asks, genuinely curious now.

Charlotte considers her answer carefully.

“If I told you…”

She stands, collecting the empty containers before Louise can keep digging.

“…it would ruin the surprise.”

Louise blinks.

“Surprise?”

Charlotte is already walking toward the bins.

“…Charlotte.”

“Nope.”

“Charlotte.”

“You’ll know when you’re supposed to.”

Louise watches her disappear across the yard before looking down at her own phone.

A new message waits from Lando.

Lando:

Leave Charlotte alone

She shakes her head, smiling to herself.

Definitely overthinking something.

—

The pool takes shape in stages, the way good things usually do.

Lando watches it from the edge of the site, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, boots planted in damp earth that still smells faintly of rain. The crew moves around him with practiced ease—tile setters crouched low, electricians threading cables with the care of surgeons, the low mechanical hum of pumps being tested for the first time.

He’s learned to recognize the rhythms of construction.

The pauses.

The checks.

The moments where everyone stops, steps back, and looks.

The lane gets build first—long, clean, uncompromising. Designed for purpose. He walks its length slowly, heel to toe, counting without meaning to. It’s exactly the length they planned. No wasted space. No unnecessary flourish.

“Depth’s right,” the foreman says, glancing up. “Won’t touch bottom unless you want to.”

Lando nods. “Good.”

Then the curve appears.

The edge softens, just slightly, where the pool bends away from straight lines and into something gentler. A place meant not for laps but for lingering. For floating. For conversations that stretch.

“Nice balance,” the architect says beside him. “Serious on one end. Human on the other.”

He smiles at that.

They test the cascade late in the afternoon, when the light is starting to dip and the air cools enough to make everyone pull their jackets tighter. Water spills from the stone lip in a smooth, controlled sheet.

Not loud.

Not dramatic.

Just a steady sound—like rain hitting leaves, or waves settling into a shore.

Lando closes his eyes for a second.

Yes, he thinks. That’s it.

He takes out his phone, raises it—

He doesn’t photograph the pool.

Instead, he turns, lifting the camera toward the sky above Aylesbury. Wide and open, streaked with pink and gold, the last light catching the tops of the trees and the edges of the house as if everything is holding its breath.

He sends it without commentary at first.

Then adds:

Lando: This place misses you.

He slips the phone back into his pocket and listens to the water.

Five minutes later, it buzzes.

Louise: I miss it too.

The words settle quietly. No rush. No ache. Just something warm and steady, like the ground under his feet.

—

Later, after the crew has left and the site has gone still, he walks the perimeter alone. The house glows softly behind him, lights warm through the new glass, reflections rippling across the pool’s surface.

He stops at the edge.

And this time, it hits him all at once.

Not the pool.

The why.

The hall that doesn’t cut the house in two, but stitches it together. A space that opens instead of funnels. Rooms that invite people to stay without ever pressing them to.

A place where her family could arrive without feeling like guests.

Where his could settle in without hovering.

Where mornings could stretch, unstructured.

Where nothing needs explaining.

The future is there, implied—not demanded.

He doesn’t name it.

He just smiles, soft and private, and pulls his phone out one last time before bed.

Lando: Random question.

Do you prefer waterfalls loud or subtle?

The reply comes almost instantly.

Louise: Subtle.

And I swear if this is still “nothing,” I’m concerned.

He laughs quietly, breath fogging faintly in the cool evening air. Locks his phone. Slips it back into his pocket.

The water reflects the house now—clean lines softened by movement, light bending and shifting with every ripple.

Soon, he thinks.

—

Steel has given way to walls. Windows have been measured. The glass for the sunroom is already on order. Electricians have started threading cables through spaces that, only a few months ago, had existed as pencil marks in a sketchbook.

The shell is becoming a place.

Which means the next decisions matter differently.

His thumb hovers over his contacts. He scrolls. Stops. Charlotte.

She answers on the third ring.

“…Okay,” she says before he’s even spoken. “What now?”

A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“I need a favour.”

“I assumed.”

He laughs quietly.

“I need a contact.”

There’s the soft scrape of a chair on the other end, then paper shifting.

“What kind of contact?”

“The interior designer.”

Charlotte doesn’t answer immediately.

“The one who worked on the house the first time,” he continues. “When we bought it.”

Silence.

Not awkward.

Thinking.

When Charlotte finally speaks again, there’s something different in her voice.

“…You’re there already.”

“The builders keep asking questions I don’t know how to answer.”

“What kind of questions?”

He rubs the back of his neck.

“’Do I want warm oak or smoked oak?’ I have opinions about structural steel, Charlotte.” Another. “I apparently don’t have opinions about lamps.”

She laughs then, warm enough that he can’t help smiling with her.

“No one has opinions about lamps until they’re forced to.”

“I think Louise probably does.”

“Oh, she absolutely does.”

He can almost hear Charlotte smiling now.

“She’ll spend forty minutes explaining why one light feels ‘gentler’ than another.”

“That’s exactly why I need help.”

The laughter fades into something quieter.

“I’ll send you her number.”

He nods, forgetting she can’t see him.

“Thanks.”

“But you’re running out of ‘last chances’ to hide behind planning.”

His eyes drift once more toward the extension.

Toward rooms that already feel familiar despite never having been lived in.

“I know,” he says quietly.

This time, he really does.

—

The realization creeps up on him over the next few days, not all at once but in fragments.

An email confirming final measurements.

A call about delivery timelines.

A calendar reminder that reads Landscaping – Final Walkthrough.

The build isn’t a project anymore.

It’s almost… finished.

He stands in his hotel room one night, suitcase half-packed, and feels something unfamiliar tighten in his chest.

This is it, a voice in his head says.

The last time it’s just his.

—

He parks in the drive and doesn’t rush inside. Just stands for a moment, hands on his hips, looking at the house as it is now—expanded but not loud, grounded but open. Like it learned how to grow without losing itself.

The new wing connects seamlessly, the hall doing exactly what it was meant to do: invite, not impose.

Inside, the air smells faintly of fresh wood and something clean—linen, maybe. The designer’s work is subtle in the way Louise always appreciated. Nothing screams. Everything fits.

He walks barefoot through the space, testing it the way she would.

Imagines her there early in the morning, hair still messy, mug warming her hands while she scrolls through something technical only she understands.

Down the hall. Guest rooms—plural. He pauses at each doorway, picturing faces. Noise. Laughter that doesn’t feel like an intrusion.

Outside, the pool waits.

Finished.

Still.

The water is glassy, reflecting the sky, the curve for lounging soft and inviting, the lane straight and honest. He crouches, trails his fingers through it, watches the ripples spread and fade.

“She’ll like this,” he murmurs aloud, just to hear it said.

He sits on the edge, feet dangling, and lets the quiet settle around him.

This is the last time, he realizes, that the new additions will only know his footsteps.

The last evening where every decision, every echo, every future moment belongs solely to him.

It doesn’t make him sad.

It makes him steady.

He walks back inside as the light shifts, turning lamps on one by one—not because it’s dark, but because it feels right. He stops in the hall, the one that connects everything, and leans against the wall.

This space will hold her the way he does, he thinks.

Gently. Without demand.

That night, he sleeps in the guest room instead of the master.

Just once.

In the morning, he makes coffee and drinks it standing by the window, watching the yard wake up. Birds. Wind in the trees. The promise of noise to come.

Before he leaves, he does one last walk-through.

Checks everything.

Fixes nothing.

He locks the door, keys warm in his palm, and for the first time since this all began, he doesn’t feel the urge to stay longer.

Because the next time he comes back—

He won’t be alone.

[lostfireflie]

Hey how are you? I would like to know if you are willing to share, now that your relationship is public knowledge, will there be an appearance of both of you as a couple on DTS? or a special chapter about their relationship? Don't I know Lou, akira and their background stuff in Lando's apartment while they follow him to have material?

Well... it's gonna take a while until the next DTS cameo/mention, I saved for a really special occasion 🤫

BUT I can put together an interlude with tiny bits of them caught by DTS' cameras

If you have any suggestions of moments/scenarios Netflix saved of them please send them via asks or messages! I'll love to hear them!

[lostfireflie]

No Title - Interlude

Sentimental Value

Summary: A quiet dinner in Monaco should’ve ended with nothing more exciting than dessert and a walk back to the car.

Instead, one borrowed hoodie turns an ordinary night into the internet’s favorite new obsession, leaving Charlotte wondering how she’s somehow still cleaning up Lando Norris’ fashion choices years later.

Word Count: 1.8k

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 I’ll add you to it!

Monaco at night has a way of pretending it’s casual.

The square is alive with people who all seem to believe they’ve stumbled into the evening by accident, though every pressed shirt, every impossibly balanced pair of heels and every table reservation made three months in advance says otherwise. Laughter rolls over the cobblestones in warm waves. Wine glasses catch the strings of lights hanging overhead, reflections trembling every time someone reaches across a table. Somewhere farther down the street, someone is playing a saxophone badly enough that it almost circles back around to charming.

The harbour carries the smell of salt inland, mixing with perfume, expensive cologne and whatever restaurant has decided butter is a personality.

Monaco always performs effortless wealth.

It just happens to perform it very well.

Louise usually sees through it.

Tonight, though, she’s trying not to think about any of it.

The dress she’s wearing had arrived in a garment bag three weeks ago, courtesy of her mum, who had accompanied it with approximately fourteen messages explaining why she needed to wear it.

It’s elegant.

It’s simple.

It looks like you.

Her mum had then proceeded to ask, every two or three days, whether she’d worn it yet.

She hadn’t.

Until tonight.

Standing in front of the mirror before they’d left, she’d almost changed back into trousers.

The dress felt… exposed somehow. Not revealing—just unfamiliar. It wasn’t built for airports or paddocks or horses or long-haul flights. It wasn’t practical.

It simply looked nice.

That alone made it feel dangerous.

When the doors slid open, Lando looked up.

Then stopped walking.

She caught it immediately.

The half-second where his brain visibly forgot what it had been doing.

His eyes travelled over her once before snapping back to her face, like he was trying very hard to behave normally.

“You look—”

She arches an eyebrow.

He clears his throat. “Comfortable.”

She snorts. “Liar.”

“Okay,” he admits. “You look really good.”

She smiles despite herself, tugging at the hem like she’s not used to wearing something that isn’t engineered for speed or survival. “My mom will be thrilled.”

—

The evening heat has softened into something pleasant, carrying sea salt and perfume and expensive cologne through the open plaza. Music spills from somewhere nearby—a violinist working the corner beside the fountain, competing with laughter rolling from crowded restaurant terraces.

Lando has always liked Monaco better after sunset.

During race weekends the principality performs. Tonight, it simply exists.

He reaches for Louise’s hand as they cross the square.

They sit for a while. Talk about nothing relevant. Everything important.

The upcoming race.

Her horses.

Zak’s latest attempt at convincing Lando he needed another company event.

Dinner stretches longer than either of them planned.

Fresh pasta.

Shared dessert because Louise insists she only wants “one bite,” before quietly eating nearly half.

By the time the plates disappear, the air has changed.

Louise doesn’t notice at first when the cold creeps in.

The breeze coming off the harbor is cooler now.

It starts small. A chill at the base of her neck. Goosebumps on her arms and legs. The dress is pretty, but it’s thin, and the night has teeth.

She crosses her arms, subtle about it.

Lando notices immediately.

“You cold?” he asks.

She opens her mouth to lie, then sighs. “A little.”

He glances toward where they’d parked.

“I think…”

He’s already halfway out of his chair. “Hang on.”

“Where are you going?”

He pauses.

“Pre-ety sure I've got a hoodie in the car.”

She shakes her head.

“I’ll survive.”

“No, stay here. I'll be right back.”

She watched him disappear down the street at an easy jog, weaving around tourists without ever seeming to hurry.

Left alone, she rested her chin in her hand and glanced around the square.

When Lando comes back, he’s holding a hoodie.

Except…

He isn’t immediately handing it over.

Instead, he’s standing beside the table scratching the back of his neck with one hand, the other holding a suspicious bundle of black fabric.

“…So.”

Louise looks up.

“So?”

He winces.

“Funny story.”

Immediately concerning.

“Lando.”

“It was the only hoodie in the car.”

She reaches for it.

He doesn’t let go.

“Lando.”

“I just…”

Another scratch behind his neck.

“…want to explain first.”

Now she’s definitely intrigued.

She gently pulls the hoodie free.

Unfolds it.

Black.

Comfortable.

Oversized.

Then she flips it over.

A huge bunny stares back at her above one unmistakable word.

PLAYBOY.

She blinks.

Looks back up at him.

“…Why do you own a Playboy hoodie?”

His face folds into immediate regret.

“I knew this conversation was coming.”

“Lando.”

“It was 2024.”

She waits.

“It was…”

He gestures vaguely into the Monaco night.

“…a different time.”

“A different time?”

“I was twenty-four.”

“You say that like it was the Victorian era.”

“I made questionable choices.”

“You wore this in public.”

“I did.”

“Repeatedly.”

“…Yeah.”

She looks back at the hoodie.

Then back at him.

“So.”

“So.”

“Why?”

He sighs dramatically.

“Because someone gave it to me.”

“Who?”

“I genuinely don’t remember.”

“You accepted random Playboy merchandise?”

“I accepted free hoodie merchandise.”

She raises an eyebrow.

“You know racing drivers aren’t exactly famous for making financially responsible clothing decisions.”

She laughs so hard she has to look away.

“I forgot it existed.”

“You forgot the giant bunny?”

“I forgot the bunny.”

She snorts.

“I don’t believe you.”

“I swear.”

She rubs her face. “My mom is going to be disappointed. She pent weeks convincing me to wear this dress.”

“She’ll live.”

“My dad is going to ask for a high five.”

Lando laughs. “That feels on brand.”

“And Charlotte,” she continued, pointing accusingly at the hoodie, “is going to kill both of us.”

“I don’t think she’ll kill me.”

“She’ll start with you.”

He held it out anyway.

“So…” He tilts his head. “So… you’re not wearing it?”

She looked from the hoodie…

…to the wind coming off the harbour…

…back to the hoodie.

A long, theatrical sigh escaped her.

“…Of course I’m wearing it.”

Relief flashes over his face.

“I’m cold.” She stands, slipping one arm through. “Just… don’t make it a big deal.”

He bites the inside of his cheek.

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

She points a finger at him.

“I’m serious.”

“I’m innocent.”

“Innocent people don’t own Playboy hoodies.”

He exhales through his nose, defeated.

“…I walked into that one.”

—

The square has grown even busier.

Night settling fully over Monaco.

Louise immediately buries herself inside the oversized hoodie, sleeves swallowing half her hands.

It absolutely dwarfs the elegant dress beneath.

The contrast is ridiculous.

She can feel people looking.

Not judgment.

Recognition.

Curiosity.

Lando falls into step beside her.

His arm naturally settles across her shoulders.

She leans into him without thinking.

“Warm enough?”

“Mhm.”

He looks at her like she’s the best thing he’s ever seen.

“You look nice.”

She rolls her eyes so dramatically he laughs.

To hide her smile, she reaches up and pulls the hood over her head.

They reach the car.

He walks ahead, opening her door.

She ducks inside.

As she does, he leans down and presses a quick kiss to the top of her hood.

Barely a second.

So automatic neither of them think about it.

“You comfy?”

“Mhm.”

“Good.”

He closes the door gently.

Walks around the bonnet toward the driver’s side wearing the kind of hopelessly smug smile only people in love seem physically capable of producing.

Neither of them notices the phones pointed their direction.

⸻

By the time they get back to the apartment, Louise has kicked off her shoes and is padding around barefoot, hoodie still on. She curls up on the couch, scrolling aimlessly, while Lando disappears into the kitchen.

The videos are everywhere.

@.monacospottings

lando and louise leaving dinner tonight 🥹

@.f1paddockfiles

NOT THE PLAYBOY HOODIE RETURNING FROM THE DEAD 😭😭😭

@.gridupdates

Louise wearing Lando’s infamous hoodie wasn’t on my bingo card.

user81: IS THAT THE HOODIE???

papayawins: THE BUNNY I’M CRYING

ln4nation: I HAVEN’T SEEN THAT THING SINCE 2024 😭

monacogirl: he looked SO proud of himself

f1lover: the forehead kiss 😭😭😭

landoswife: no because she has a gorgeous dress underneath and she’s still wearing his ugly hoodie

sectorpurple: “if lost return to lando norris”

pitwalltea: Somewhere Charlotte just felt a disturbance in the Force.

papayaszn: imagine the PR group chat right now

louiselove: her mum definitely bought that dress and he’s covered it with PLAYBOY 😭

gridgirl: why did he look SO SMUG opening the car door

⸻

Charlotte sees it at exactly 11:47 p.m.

She isn’t scrolling.

She never is.

Someone from the social team sends it into the group chat with no context.

Just the link.

Charlotte opens it.

Watches once.

Twice.

A third time.

Her eyes close.

“…Of course.”

She pinches the bridge of her nose.

The group chat begins exploding before she can even think.

Social Media Manager

so…

PR Assistant

should we—

Social Media Manager

are we acknowledging this?

Charlotte types.

Stops.

Deletes it.

Types again.

Charlotte

Nobody says anything.

PR Assistant

because?

Charlotte stares at the paused frame of Louise wrapped in the hoodie.

The bunny logo might as well have been illuminated.

She sighs.

Charlotte

Because there is literally nothing to say.

They went to dinner.

She got cold.

He gave her a hoodie.

Unfortunately the hoodie belonged to an idiot.

A solid ten seconds pass.

Then reactions start rolling in.

😂😂😂

💀

Charlotte rolls her eyes so hard it almost hurts.

She opens her contacts.

Lando

She debates calling.

No.

If she called, he’d hear how annoyed she was.

A text left enough evidence.

Charlotte

Tell me you only realized AFTER she put it on.

The typing bubble appears almost instantly.

Lando

…

yes

Charlotte

I don’t believe you.

Lando

okay technically it was as I was handing it to her

Charlotte actually laughs.

Not because it’s funny.

Because it is so catastrophically, predictably Lando.

Charlotte

I have spent almost years managing your public image.

I leave Formula One.

I come back for Louise.

Somehow I’m still dealing with that hoodie.

A full minute passes before his reply.

Lando

in my defense

she was cold

Charlotte stares at the message.

She can’t even argue with it.

She thinks back to Louise bundled inside a hoodie that looked two sizes too big, smiling despite looking deeply offended by the circumstances.

The comments weren’t cruel.

If anything, people seemed charmed.

No scandals.

No outrage.

Just endless jokes at Lando’s expense.

She exhales slowly.

One last message.

Charlotte

Buy a normal hoodie.

Lando

this one has sentimental value

—

Charlotte drops her phone onto the sofa.

“Of course it does.”

She already knows what’s going to happen.

By tomorrow afternoon, there will be edits.

Compilations.

Merch jokes.

And six months from now, long after the internet should have forgotten about it, someone will ask Louise during an interview if she’s ever returned “the Playboy hoodie.”

She sighs toward the ceiling.

“I really should start charging him extra.”

[lostfireflie]

No Title - Baselines

Lando Norris x Louise Levine (Original Character)

Summary: As Louise and Lando return to testing, they’re poked, prodded, and pushed to their limits—physically, mentally, and, in Lando’s case, accidentally emotionally. Between performance reviews, factory meetings, old promises resurfacing, and the comforting rhythm of coming home together, they discover that not everything worth measuring can be found on a graph.

Word Count: 7.6k

Masterlist

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Pre-season always feels like confession. Numbers don’t care about narrative. Data doesn’t soften for feelings.

They fly in together, the off-season glow still faintly clinging to them like leftover sun. Lando’s tan hasn’t faded. Louise’s hair is braided tight again, practical and deliberate. Back to systems. Back to structure.

They step out of the car into crisp morning air that smells faintly of frost and antiseptic. Louise adjusts the strap of her duffel over her shoulder, Lando stretches his arms overhead like he’s arriving at summer camp instead of a biometric laboratory.

“Ready to be scientifically dismantled?” he asks.

She glances at the building.

“I live for structured evaluation.”

He laughs.

“I know you do.”

The facility feels the same as it always does—cool air brushing against skin, faint chemical cleanliness lingering like a warning, the low, constant hum of machines built to tell the truth whether you’re ready to hear it or not.

Louise clocks it the moment she steps inside.

Not with nerves. With familiarity.

She signs in without fuss, wristband secured in one smooth motion. Hoodie swapped for athletics clothes, no jewelry. Her posture is economical—nothing wasted, nothing stiff. She looks around once, cataloging, equipment, people.

John is waiting just inside the glass doors.

Clipboard. Tablet. That particular smirk.

“Well, well,” he says as they approach. “Look who decided to stop hiding.”

Lando exhales.

“Morning to you too.”

John’s eyes flick briefly to Louise.

“Good to see you, officially.”

She smiles politely.

“Good to be here.”

“You're off that way.” John nods toward the training wing. “Lando, you're with me.”

Lando groans theatrically.

—

The researchers notice her immediately.

Not because she’s loud—she isn’t—but because she isn’t performing. No bravado. No nervous humor. Just presence. The kind that comes from having been measured before and knowing exactly what that costs.

This isn’t someone bracing for judgment.

This is an athlete in a comfortable window—experienced enough to trust her body, grounded enough not to fight it.

Baseline testing begins.

VO₂ max first. Mask fitted, treadmill calibrated, heart rate climbing steadily on the screen. Louise settles into the pace like she’s slipping into a familiar rhythm—breath controlled, shoulders loose, effort measured rather than forced.

A technician glances at the numbers, eyebrows lifting.

“Let us know if—”

“I will,” Louise says calmly, without breaking stride. “But I’m fine.”

She is.

When the test ends, she steps off cleanly, reaches for a towel, wipes sweat from her neck. No dramatic bend at the waist. No theatrics.

“So?” she asks, peering at the monitor. “How bad is it?”

The tech laughs. “It’s… not bad.”

She hums, satisfied. “Good. I like when my lungs behave.”

Lactate thresholds follow. Blood prick. Data logged. Respiratory efficiency measured in quiet increments. Louise answers questions succinctly, asks a few of her own.

“Can I see the curve?”

“Already?” someone murmurs.

Heat stress comes next.

The chamber closes around her with a soft hiss. Temperature rising. Sensors tracking core heat, sweat rate, hydration response. Louise rolls her shoulders once, settles.

Inside, the air thickens.

Manual dexterity tasks appear—fine motor control under stress. Tiny pegs. Precision grips. Timed sequences.

Her fingers tremble slightly on the first attempt.

She notices.

Stops.

Exhales—slow, deliberate. Resets her grip, adjusts pressure, steadies her breathing.

Second attempt: clean. Faster.

Nailed.

A researcher scribbles something down. Another quietly circles the timestamp on the tablet.

No one says anything out loud, but there’s a shift—a collective lean-in.

Cognitive load testing comes next.

Reaction boards light up. Memory recall under distraction. Target discrimination while auditory noise ramps higher.

Louise’s focus sharpens as fatigue settles in.

Her response times improve.

“Is that—” someone whispers.

“Yeah,” another replies, eyes glued to the screen.

That raises eyebrows.

When it’s mentioned, carefully, she just shrugs.

“My brain doesn’t like silence,” she says mildly. “It behaves better when it has something to push against.”

A beat.

Then, dry as ever: “It explains a lot.”

A few laughs break the tension.

The machines hum on.

And somewhere between the data points and the quiet adjustments, it becomes clear—this isn’t about proving anything.

It’s about knowing exactly who she is in the middle of the strain.

And trusting that it’s enough.

—

“Alright, champ. Baseline testing first. VO₂ max. Strength circuit. Then we’ll go through your sleep and recovery data.”

“You enjoy this too much.”

“I enjoy accuracy,” John replies evenly.

The lab smells faintly metallic and sterile, climate controlled to the decimal. Screens glow in quiet blues and greens. Everything in here measures something. Nothing is left to guesswork.

Lando stretches his neck once, rolling his shoulders back.

“Let’s get it over with then.”

The treadmill hums to life.

Mask strapped tight over his nose and mouth. Elastic biting slightly behind his ears. The technician checks the seal. Nods.

“Ready?”

“Yep.”

The belt begins at an easy pace.

Warm-up rhythm settles quickly—feet striking clean, arms loose. The incline ticks up gradually. Then the speed.

Breathing shifts from controlled to deliberate.

The mask amplifies every inhale, every exhale loud in his own ears. Data scrolls across the monitor beside him: oxygen consumption, heart rate climbing steadily, efficiency curves mapping in real time.

“Looking good,” someone says.

He nods without breaking stride.

Another incline jump.

Another speed increase.

His calves tighten first. Then the burn creeps upward, thighs protesting. Sweat gathers under the mask, trickling down his jawline.

“Stay relaxed,” John calls from behind the glass. “Don’t fight it.”

Easy for him to say.

Lando pushes.

His breathing grows sharper, deeper. Chest expanding hard against the resistance of the mask. The numbers on the screen flicker higher.

“Last minute,” the technician says.

It’s never just a minute.

His vision narrows slightly at the edges. Legs heavy now. Lungs properly on fire.

“Three, two, one— and stop.”

The belt slows.

He grabs the side rails for half a second, steadying himself before stepping off.

Mask off.

Air hits his face cool and sharp.

He bends forward, hands on knees, then straightens quickly—refusing theatrics even when his body wants to fold.

—

Later, Lando all but collapses onto one of the padded recovery benches lining the edge of the performance lab. His lungs burn pleasantly from the VO₂ max test, sweat soaking through the collar of his training shirt and trickling down his temples. He lets his head fall back for a second, staring up at the bright white ceiling while willing his heartbeat to settle into something resembling normal.

Across from him, John looks infuriatingly unaffected.

One leg crossed over the other, tablet balanced comfortably against his knee, he scrolls through pages of graphs with the same expression he’d wear reading the weather forecast.

“Overall,” he says after a moment, “very good.”

Lando grins between breaths.

“Told you.”

“You did.”

John pinches the screen, zooming into another chart.

“Your aerobic capacity has improved. Anaerobic threshold is higher than last season. Recovery between high-intensity efforts is consistently faster.”

Lando nods proudly.

“See?”

“The trend is actually quite interesting.”

John scrolls again.

“I’ve been reviewing your data over the last several years.”

Lando raises an eyebrow.

“The last several years?”

“Mhm.”

John barely looks up.

“Zak and Andrea asked if I could put together a long-term development review.”

Lando blinks.

“A what?”

“A comprehensive performance report.” John says it as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “They wanted to see how you’ve developed physiologically over time. Fitness progression. Recovery adaptation. Sleep quality. Stress response. The usual.”

“…Right.”

“So I’ve been comparing everything.” John taps another graph. “Training blocks. Race weekends. Travel. Off-seasons. General cardiovascular adaptations...”

Lando nods slowly.

“So…”

“So…” John’s finger pauses. “…I noticed something.”

Lando immediately doesn’t like where this is going.

“What kind of something?”

John rotates the tablet slightly—not enough for Lando to actually read it, just enough for him to make out a graph littered with dramatic peaks.

“I’ve been looking at your resting heart rate trends.”

“…Okay.”

“And there are some rather interesting elevations.”

Lando shrugs.

“Interesting how?”

John zooms further in.

“Late evenings.”

Another swipe.

“Very early mornings.”

Swipe.

“The occasional mid-afternoon.”

The peaks practically leap off the screen.

Sharp.

Sudden.

Entirely out of place.

“No corresponding exercise,” John continues.

“No logged workout.”

Swipe.

“No stress markers.”

Swipe.

“No illness.”

Swipe.

“No unusual sleep debt.”

He studies the graph with genuine scientific curiosity.

“Just abrupt increases of approximately twenty-five to thirty-five beats per minute.”

Lando feels warmth crawl up the back of his neck.

“…Huh.”

John nods.

“Quite.”

“Could be…” Lando clears his throat. “A software bug?”

John finally looks over the top of his glasses.

“A software bug.”

“Yeah.”

John blinks once.

“That selectively occurs over multiple years.”

“…”

“Across three different generations of Whoop hardware.”

“…”

“And survives firmware updates.”

Lando scratches the back of his neck.

“…Technology’s weird.”

John hums thoughtfully.

“It certainly is.” He scrolls again. “The timestamps are particularly fascinating.” Tap. “0:13 a.m.” Another. “11:48 p.m.” Another. “12:36 a.m.” Another. “2:47 p.m.”

Lando stares very hard at the opposite wall.

“Hydration?”

John doesn’t even dignify that with an immediate response.

Instead, he keeps scrolling.

“What I found especially interesting,” he says calmly, “was that the afternoon elevations almost perfectly coincide with weeks you weren’t racing.” Tap. “Summer break.” Tap. “Winter shutdown.” Tap. “Travel to Monaco.” Tap. “Travel back to England.”

Lando slowly closes his eyes.

“…Right.”

“And when cross-referenced with your history—”

“Oh my God.”

“—they almost exclusively occur when—”

“John.”

“—Louise was—”

“JOHN.”

His voice echoes around the clinical room much louder than he’d intended.

Conversation at the opposite workstation dies instantly.

One of the technicians suddenly becomes deeply fascinated by calibrating a force plate that absolutely does not need calibrating.

Someone else coughs into their sleeve to hide what is almost certainly a laugh.

Lando can actually feel his ears burning.

“You correlated my heart rate…”

John nods matter-of-factly.

“I correlate everything.”

“…to my girlfriend?”

“You’d be surprised what biometric datasets reveal.”

“I don’t want to know.”

“It wasn’t intentional.”

That, somehow, makes it worse.

“I wasn’t looking for this.”

John gestures toward the dozens of graphs still open on his screen.

“I was reviewing your overall physiological development because Zak and Andrea wanted a complete longitudinal report.”

He says it so earnestly that Lando can’t even accuse him of being nosy.

“I simply noticed recurring anomalies.”

“I hate that you called them anomalies.”

“They were statistically significant.”

“I hate that even more.”

John scrolls one final time.

“I’ll admit, at first I thought perhaps there was an undisclosed medical issue.”

Lando drops his face into both hands.

“Please stop talking.”

“So I investigated further.”

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”

“The pattern became rather obvious.”

Silence.

Then John says, in exactly the same tone he’d used discussing lactate thresholds,

“So I’m just confirming.”

A tiny pause.

“She was responsible for all of these?”

Lando doesn’t answer.

Mostly because he’s contemplating whether dying on this bench would actually be preferable.

John waits.

“…Lando?”

A muffled groan escapes through his hands.

“…Maybe.”

John nods once.

“Thought so.”

He makes one final note on the tablet.

Lando’s head snaps up.

“What are you writing?”

“Nothing concerning.”

“What does that mean?”

“‘Elevated heart-rate events consistent with… non-training physiological stimulation.’”

“Oh my God.”

“It’s medically accurate.”

“It’s humiliating.”

“It’s confidential.”

“Zak asked for this report.”

“He asked for the performance summary.”

John locks the screen with a soft click.

“He does not receive the raw biometric annotations.”

Lando visibly relaxes.

“…Thank God.”

“I also omitted the timestamps.”

“You actually considered including the timestamps?”

“I considered everything.”

Lando lets out a long, defeated sigh.

“I cannot believe this is my life.”

John finally smiles.

Only slightly.

“For what it’s worth, your recovery remained excellent.”

He taps the now-dark tablet against his palm.

“HRV stayed stable. Sleep duration was unaffected. Cardiovascular conditioning continued improving throughout the period.”

Lando mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like, small victories.

“I would only recommend,” John says with complete professional composure, “perhaps not treating every evening together like it’s Monaco qualifying.”

Lando stares blankly at the ceiling.

“…Noted.”

John stands, satisfied with both the testing session and, apparently, the psychological damage he’d inflicted.

He gives Lando a single approving pat on the shoulder.

“And congratulations.”

Lando narrows his eyes.

“…For?”

John’s face remains perfectly straight.

“For surviving your twenties.”

A reluctant laugh escapes before Lando can stop it.

He shakes his head.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“So I’ve been told.”

John walks away, already opening the next athlete’s file, while behind him Lando quietly vows never to wear a biometric tracker around Louise ever again.

—

They cross paths mid-afternoon between stations.

Lando’s flushed from sprint intervals, towel draped around his neck. She’s just finished unilateral strength testing, sitting on a bench with one knee folded up, breathing slow and even.

He studies her for a second.

“You look annoyingly calm,” he says.

“I am annoyingly calm.”

He bumps his knee against hers lightly.

“John tried to accuse you of attempted manslaughter.”

She blinks. “Excuse me?”

“My heart rate spikes.”

Her lips twitch.

“Oh,” she says innocently. “Those.”

He groans. “Don’t.”

She leans closer, lowering her voice. “Maybe your body just likes me.”

“It does not—”

“Your heart very clearly does.”

He fights a smile and loses.

There’s something different between them now. Not louder. Just steadier.

Less adrenaline.

More grounding.

Mobility assessments stretch into the afternoon—balance platforms, unilateral loading, flexibility mapping. Louise’s body tells a very different story from two years ago.

Less explosive.

More efficient.

Every movement purposeful, conserved.

Lando notices it most when they’re side by side, waiting for the next station. She sits with one knee folded up, hands resting loosely, breathing slow and even—someone who knows exactly how much energy she has and how not to waste it.

Outside, the track waits.

She clocks it instantly.

The track sits wide and exposed, heat already shimmering off it even though it’s barely morning.

Louise knows this place too well.

She’s already complaining before they’re even fully outside.

“Just so we’re clear,” she says, tugging at the waistband of her shorts, “I have never once enjoyed running in my entire life. Not as a child. Not as an athlete. Not as whatever this is supposed to be.”

John doesn’t even look at her. Clipboard tucked under his arm, stopwatch dangling from his fingers like an accusation.

“You say that every year.”

“And every year I’m right,” she fires back. “Notice the consistency. Elite mindset.”

Lando snorts beside her, already stretching, shoulders loose, annoyingly ready. He shoots her a look. “You were literally born with pretty fast legs.”

“That doesn’t mean I like using them,” she says, narrowing her eyes. “I prefer them for standing. Or sitting. Or not moving at all.”

John stops at the edge of the track and gestures them forward.

“Positions.”

Louise freezes.

“No,” she says immediately. “Nope. I recognize this tone. This is the tone of betrayal.”

“Louise,” John says patiently, “line up.”

She glares at him, then at Lando. “If you say anything supportive, I’m never speaking to you again.”

Lando lifts his hands. “Not a word.”

Muttering under her breath, she drags herself to the line, dropping into position with all the enthusiasm of someone being asked to lie down in traffic.

“This is cruel,” she says. “This is personal. This is targeted.”

John checks his watch.

Lando focuses, eyes forward, breath steady.

Louise squints sideways. “I hope you know I’m only doing this because pancakes are involved.”

John doesn’t lift his arm.

Seconds pass.

Louise shifts. “Uh. Hello?”

Nothing.

John finally turns to her. “You’re free this time.”

She looks up, confused. “Wait—what?”

Silence.

Her brain visibly short-circuits.

“…I’m sorry?”

“You’re not doing this portion,” he repeats. “Research team cleared you. Different load plan.”

Her eyes widen. “Really?”

John raises an eyebrow. “You want me to change my mind?”

“NO—no, it’s fine!” she blurts, scrambling upright so fast she nearly trips. “I’m good. I’m great. Fantastic decision. Love this for me.”

She takes three steps back like the track might chase her.

Then she breaks.

She skips.

Actually skips—light, uncoordinated hops, arms swinging, a laugh bubbling out of her chest as she circles the edge of the track like she’s just been released from prison.

“Yes!” she announces to absolutely no one. “Freedom! Science loves me! I always knew it!”

Lando watches her go, shaking his head, smiling despite himself.

She flops down onto the grass near the line, stretching out dramatically, hands behind her head like she’s earned a full retirement.

“Alright,” she calls as Lando gets set. “I’ll be right here, emotionally supporting you.”

He glances over. “Emotionally?”

“Mm-hmm. Spiritually, too. I’ll absorb some of your suffering.”

John blows the whistle.

Lando takes off.

Louise tracks him with her eyes, playing on a blade of grass, completely relaxed now. When he passes the halfway mark, she sits up.

“WAIT,” she turns to John.

He doen'st look at her.

“Important question.”

John sighs.

“I still get pancakes after, right?”

“Yeah. You do.”

She beams. “Perfect. Best training camp ever.”

She flops back onto the grass, victorious, while Lando bends over catching his breath—both of them exactly where they’re meant to be.

—

By the final day, the charts are dense.

Not alarming—just complex. Layers of data stacked over each other, intersecting in ways that don’t quite settle into the neat boxes the models prefer. Louise doesn’t spike where she used to. She doesn’t dip where they expect her to. The lines tell a story that’s quieter, harder to categorize.

Which tracks.

Louise has never fit cleanly into anything.

John scrolls through the tablet slowly, thumb pausing over certain graphs like he’s rereading a sentence he doesn’t want to misinterpret. Around them, the facility is winding down—equipment being wiped, researchers murmuring in low, satisfied tones. Someone laughs in the distance. The air feels looser now, like the work has been acknowledged.

Louise sits on the mat a few feet away, rolling a ball under the arch of her foot with steady pressure. Her posture is relaxed, shoulders down, braid loosened at the nape of her neck. She’s quiet—not withdrawn, just… finished.

John finally exhales.

“You’ve changed,” he says.

She looks up at him, eyes clear. “I hope so.”

He nods, eyes still on the screen. “It’s impressive,” he adds. Not performative. Not warm. Just factual. “Watching it this close.”

She takes that in without deflecting it, without joking it away. A small nod. Acceptance.

Silence stretches.

She rolls the ball once more, then stills it with her foot.

“So,” she says calmly, “can we have pancakes now?”

John blinks.

Lando, sitting against the wall unlacing his shoes, bursts out laughing.

“Fine.” John mutters, but there’s a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He locks the tablet and tucks it under his arm. “You earned it.”

Louise’s eyes light up like someone’s just announced a national holiday.

They don’t go far—just a place down the road that smells like butter and coffee and forgiveness. The kind of diner that doesn’t ask questions when three elite athletes walk in still flushed from training.

They slide into a booth, vinyl seats squeaking. Louise barely waits for the menu.

“Everything,” she tells the server politely. “But in pancake form.”

When the food arrives, it’s excessive in the best way.

She stares at it, hypnotized

John pauses, then pulls out his phone.

“Don’t move,” he says.

Louise doesn’t blink.

Click.

Louise sits tucked into the booth like she’s folded herself into the corner of the moment—cheeks still flushed from exertion, a faint sheen of sweat at her temples she hasn’t bothered to wipe away yet. Her braid has loosened, a few strands escaping to curl against her neck. Her eyes are wide, almost reverent, fixed on the stack of pancakes in front of her like it’s a holy object.

Syrup spills down the sides in slow, amber rivulets. Strawberry jam melts into the heat. Berries glisten.

Beside her, Lando is mid-motion—fork raised, an aggressively large bite already halfway to his mouth. His grin is crooked, unbothered, caught between effort and reward. He still looks warm from training too, collarbone damp, shoulders relaxed in that way that only happens once the work is done.

John smirks. “Blackmail.”

She reaches for her fork at last, triumphant. “Worth it.”

Lando nudges her shoulder lightly. “You survived.”

She takes her first bite, eyes closing for half a second. “Barely. But with dignity.”

Outside, the week is over. The data is logged. The work will continue.

For now, there are pancakes.

—

The photo really does freeze them perfectly.

Not staged. Not polished. Just caught

Two athletes. Spent. Satisfied.

Human.

John looks at the photo for a second longer than necessary before posting it in a carrossel.

No filters. No edits. Just a caption.

@.johntrainingcamp

Another preseason camp in the books.

Data collected. Limits tested. Progress made.

Special thanks to @.louiselevine for:

showing up

breaking our models (again)

and—miraculously—complaining less than last year

Pancakes were earned. 🥞

The comments start rolling in almost immediately.

@.gridnerd42

“COMPLAINING LESS” is a wild metric to track but I respect it.

@.sportsphysio_jane

This is what peak performance looks like and yes it includes syrup.

@.papayafanclub

Lando already eating like it's a race 😭

@.brainandbrawn

The contrast between her staring at the pancakes and him already committing is killing me.

@.femalesinsport

Normalize elite women eating pancakes post-training 👏👏👏

@.trackside_tales

Why does this look like the cover of a memoir I would absolutely read.

@.enhance_zoom_repeat

Still sweaty. Still smiling. This is better than podium pics.

—

By the time the plates are cleared, the table looks like the aftermath of a small, joyful crime.

Syrup streaks. Jam smears. Crumbs everywhere. Someone—almost certainly Lando—has managed to get chocolate on the outside of the plate, which John eyes with the quiet resignation of a man who has seen worse in training camps.

Louise leans back against the booth, hands resting on her stomach, expression soft and unguarded in a way that only shows up when she’s genuinely done. Not tired—finished. Belly full. Brain quiet.

“That,” she says, nodding once, decisively, “was worth every data point.”

Lando laughs, still chewing the last bite he absolutely didn’t need but took anyway. “You say that like you didn’t emotionally commit to those pancakes before we even got here.”

“I spiritually committed,” she corrects. “Very different.”

He shifts closer without thinking about it. The booth is narrow, the table cluttered, and it just makes sense. His arm comes up and around her shoulders, easy and familiar, pulling her in with a gentle squeeze that’s more habit than declaration.

She goes with it just as naturally.

Her head settles lightly against his shoulder, not heavy, not clinging—just resting there like it’s always known the shape. Her braid has loosened further, wisps of hair brushing his collarbone. There’s still a faint smudge of syrup near the corner of her mouth, which he notices and absolutely does not mention because it feels like a secret meant to stay exactly where it is.

They’re both smiling. Not for anyone. Just… smiling.

John watches them from across the table, coffee gone cold in his mug.

He doesn’t say anything. He just reaches for his phone.

The sound of the camera shutter is soft, almost polite.

Louise barely reacts—just tilts her head a fraction more into Lando’s shoulder, eyes half-lidded now, content. Lando glances up at John, raises an eyebrow.

John checks the screen.

The photo catches them mid-breath. Lando’s arm snug around her, his cheek tipped slightly toward her hair. Louise relaxed into him, mouth curved, eyes bright but calm. Both of them flushed still, faces clean except for the evidence of pancakes they clearly didn’t bother hiding.

He locks his phone.

“That one’s not for the internet.”

Louise opens one eye. “Do I look… acceptable?”

“You look,” John says carefully, “human.”

She hums, satisfied. “Excellent.”

Lando grins. “High praise.”

John stands, tucking the phone into his pocket like he’s storing something fragile. “Alright. Camp’s officially over. You’ve earned the rest of your day.”

Louise exhales, long and happy. “I’m going to do nothing, so hard.”

They slide out of the booth slowly, the lazy movements of people with no more schedules pressing on them. Outside, the light has softened, afternoon stretching wide and unbothered.

As they walk out, Lando keeps his arm around her shoulders. She lets it stay.

John lingers behind for a second, glancing once more at the door of the diner, at the moment that’s already passed.

Some things are for metrics.

Some for headlines.

Some for proof.

And some—

Some you just keep.

—

England greets them back with low skies, damp air, and the quiet insistence that routine is about to reclaim them.

Aylesbury becomes a rhythm again almost immediately. The house cool in the mornings, windows fogging slightly while the kettle works overtime. Louise pads into the kitchen in one of her pullover hoodies, sleeves swallowing her hands, hair still loose from sleep. Lando follows five minutes later, already scrolling through overnight messages he’s pretending not to care about.

Breakfast is eaten too fast.

“Keys?” she asks.

“On the counter.”

“They are not.”

He swears under his breath, jogs back upstairs. Finds them on the bedside table. Returns sheepish.

She doesn’t even look up from tying her laces. “You’re welcome.”

They split at the door with a kiss that feels less cinematic than the south of France and more grounding. Quick. Familiar. Real.

“Text me when you’re done,” he says.

“I always do.”

“Still.”

She rolls her eyes lightly but squeezes his hand once before stepping toward her car.

Routine doesn’t dull them.

It steadies them.

Aston Martin smells like composite dust, hot wiring, and the faint metallic tang of something being built to survive violence.

Louise moves through it with her hair tied back tight—not as a visitor weaving between departments, but as part of the current. iPad and notebook tucked under her arm, she nods at people without slowing down.

She isn’t here to admire the car.

She’s here to interrogate it.

The chassis sits beneath hard white lights, still skeletal in places. Wiring looms exposed. Aero surfaces unfinished at the edges. At this stage, it looks less like a machine and more like a thesis—every line an argument waiting to be defended.

She doesn’t linger on aesthetics.

She goes straight to the data.

In the simulator suite, the air is cooler, quieter. Banks of monitors glow with telemetry traces and CFD overlays. She lowers herself into the sim rig with practiced ease, adjusts the belts, flexes her fingers once over the wheel.

“Load the Bahrain baseline,” she says.

A murmur of confirmation from behind the glass.

The virtual track resolves around her.

She feeds in steering input carefully, cataloguing responses. Brake trace smooth. Throttle linear.

“Front’s compliant on entry,” she says calmly. “But I’m losing feedback mid-corner. It’s stable, but it’s numb.”

An aero engineer leans toward his mic. “That’s the sidepod revision. We gained cooling margin.”

“How much drag penalty?”

“Minimal.”

“Define minimal.”

A pause as someone scrolls.

“Two points.”

She considers it through Turn 6, deliberately unsettling the rear on exit.

“Feels like more,” she says. “The platform’s too insulated. I don’t want comfort. I want information.”

They run it again.

This time she pushes harder—late on the brakes, aggressive rotation, feeling for the edges.

Telemetry lights up across the screens.

“Rear’s predictable,” she continues. “But if stability costs rotation, we’re solving the wrong problem.”

She pits in virtually, visor lifting though there isn’t one.

“Can we trim the sidepod mass back by half the revision and re-run. And shift the brake migration forward two percent. I want to see if the front wakes up.”

Behind the glass, heads nod. Adjustments made in minutes that would take weeks in the real world.

That’s why she loves this room.

It’s where the car is still clay.

They iterate for hours. Small changes. Tiny gains. Losses measured and weighed. She never raises her voice. Never performs frustration. She just keeps asking the right questions.

“What does the correlation say versus wind tunnel?”

“Within tolerance.”

“Within tolerance isn’t enough. Can I see the deviation curve?”

In the afternoon she’s in a glass meeting room, screens surrounding the table with overlays of CFD renders, suspension geometry diagrams, weight distribution spreadsheets.

She sits forward, elbows on the table, listening.

An aerodynamicist walks through airflow structures around the revised floor edge. Another presents cooling efficiencies from the updated packaging.

She lets them finish.

Then:

“If we’re trading rotation for thermal comfort, we need to be honest about that,” she says. “Because on a green track, that’s understeer we won’t dial out with setup.”

Silence.

Not defensive.

Thoughtful.

She taps a specific section of the render.

“Here. This vortex structure collapses earlier than you think under yaw. That’s what I’m feeling mid-corner. It’s not vague. It’s delayed.”

Someone zooms in.

She’s right.

The room shifts—not in surprise, but in calibration. The conversation sharpens.

They aren’t building around preference.

They’re building around understanding.

Later, back in the sim, she runs long stints. Fuel loads varied. Crosswind simulated. Degradation layered in.

Her voice over the radio stays even.

“Better. Front’s talking again.”

A beat.

“Now it’s honest.”

There’s a difference.

Honest means the car tells you when you’ve overstepped. Honest means the limit is visible.

By late afternoon, her iPad is filled with annotated screenshots and notes in tight handwriting. There’s graphite on her fingers from sketching a minor aero suggestion in the margin of a printed floor diagram with Adrian—just a subtle contour adjustment, nothing dramatic.

She checks the time and is mildly surprised by it.

Hours have gone past.

—

Evenings in Aylesbury are quieter than both factories combined.

Shoes kicked off by the door. Jackets abandoned on chairs. The house warming slowly as the heating hums on.

They eat pasta straight from the prepped meals bowls, on the kitchen island.

“How bad was it?” he asks.

“They want more speed,” she says. “They always want more speed.”

“And?”

“I told them I want predictability.”

He nods. “Good.”

“And you?”

“Will told me I need to stop approaching the baseline metric runs like qualifying.”

“Will it's right.”

He narrows his eyes. “Don’t let him hear that.”

She smiles into her bowl.

Later, she curls up on the sofa with her legs tucked beneath her, iPad balanced on one knee. He drops down beside her, head landing in her lap without asking.

Her fingers automatically move into his hair.

No cameras.

No metrics.

Just the soft click of her scrolling and the steady rhythm of his breathing evening out.

Outside, England stays grey and damp and insistent.

Inside, routine settles around them—not as a cage, but as something chosen.

—

Across Woking, the McLaren Technology Centre hums with its particular brand of optimism and pressure.

Glass corridors. White floors. Orange accents sharp against the grey sky outside.

Lando’s day is less philosophical.

Seat fitting first.

He lowers himself into the chassis mock-up, mechanics adjusting foam inserts millimetre by millimetre.

“Too tight on the left hip,” he says.

“Same as last year.”

“I’ve evolved.”

They snort.

He goes through merch shoots next—half-smiles on cue, holding caps at slightly different angles while someone says, “Chin down a touch, mate.”

Team kit photos. Media recordings.

“Describe your goals for the season.”

“Fast.”

“Okay but maybe… longer.”

He grins. “Fasterr.”

In between obligations, he checks emails he’s definitely supposed to be reading. Sponsorship briefings. PR outlines. Performance summaries.

He’s halfway through one now, leaning against a corridor wall, when movement catches his eye through the glass.

He looks up.

And there she is.

Walking like she belongs—which she does—hands tucked into the pockets of her jacket, hair loose today, expression dangerously neutral. The kind she wears when she’s about to say something polite but inconvenient.

His brain takes half a second to process before his body does.

He’s already walking.

“Hey, you,” he says, grin breaking through before he can stop it. “What brings you here?… Did we have something scheduled? Did I forget—”

“No,” she interrupts calmly. “Relax.”

She stops in front of him, tilting her head slightly.

“I’m on my way to my annual session of annoying Zak.”

His face lights up. “Then let me lay a carpet for you.”

She snorts.

They fall into step together, shoulder to shoulder like it’s muscle memory. Engineers glance up from laptops. Strategists pretend not to look. There’s a shift in the air when they pass—not spectacle, not gossip.

Fondness.

People here have watched Lando grow up inside these walls. Watched him move from teenager to champion. They see the way his shoulders drop half an inch when she’s beside him. The way her gaze sharpens when she steps into a rival factory but doesn’t hesitate.

“You excited?” he murmurs as they approach the office corridor.

“About annoying Zak?”

“Yeah.”

“Thrilled, actually.”

He laughs under his breath.

At Zak’s door, he stops.

“This is where I leave you,” he says solemnly. “If you don’t come back in twenty minutes, I’ll assume negotiations escalated.”

She taps his chest lightly. “Don’t wait up.”

He catches her hand briefly before she can pull away. Just a squeeze. Quick. Private.

“Behave,” he says.

“Never.”

She disappears into the office.

He stands there for a second longer than necessary, staring at the closed door, shaking his head with a smile he doesn’t try to hide.

Then he heads back down the corridor, lighter.

—

Louise knocks once—soft, measured—and lets herself in before anyone can answer.

Zak is already looking up.

He smiles the way people do when they’ve been expecting trouble and are mildly pleased to see it materialize.

“Well,” he says, leaning back in his chair, hands folding comfortably over his stomach. “If it isn’t my favorite walking liability. I thought you were satisfied with winning championships. Little did I know you were also taking over my driver’s heart.”

She closes the door behind her with deliberate calm.

The office smells faintly of coffee and polished wood. Framed race photos line the walls—silver arrows of papaya frozen mid-corner. Trophies sit just within peripheral vision, never quite center stage.

She drops into the chair opposite him without waiting to be invited.

“Hi, Zak. Nice to see you too.”

His eyes flicker—amused, assessing.

“What can I do for you?” he asks lightly. The tone is playful. The gaze is not.

She folds her hands loosely in her lap.

“I’m here about the rest of the bet.”

The smile freezes.

Not dramatically.

Just a fractional tightening around the eyes.

Zak exhales through his nose.

“Ah.”

Silence stretches a second longer than comfortable.

She leans forward, forearms resting on her knees, posture economical.

“You said whenever I want.”

“I said a lot of things,” he counters, sitting up slightly. “Some of them under emotional duress.”

“You shook my hand,” she reminds him pleasantly. “That’s legally binding in motorsport law.”

He rubs a hand over his face, muttering something about lawyers.

“You already took Le Mans.”

“And it was lovely,” she says warmly. “Ten out of ten. Would recommend.”

Zak narrows his eyes at her. “You’re not here to thank me.”

“No,” she agrees calmly. “I’m here to collect.”

The words land gently.

But they land.

A beat passes.

Then, softer—sharper for it:

“Think of it like pulling a band-aid off. Don’t you want to get rid of me once and for all?”

He huffs out a laugh despite himself, shaking his head.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“I’m efficient,” she corrects. “I’m already going to be stuck in the U.S. for the first half of the year, anyway.” she continues smoothly. “Might as well work on something while I’m there.”

Zak pushes his chair back and stands, pacing once behind his desk. It’s not dramatic pacing—just the movement of someone buying time to think.

“Indy isn’t like anything else you’ve done,” he says finally, more serious now. “It’s not Le Mans. It’s not F1. It’s not even close.”

“I know.”

“One track. One direction. No runoff. No forgiveness.”

“I know.”

“Louise—”

“I know,” she repeats, softer this time, but immovable. “I’ve watched it. Studied it. Talked to people who’ve lost friends there. I’m not romantic about it.”

That stops him.

He turns fully toward her now.

No jokes. No CEO gloss.

Just a man who has watched her grow up in paddocks and debrief rooms and board meetings she was never meant to sit in.

“I’ve watched you come a long way,” he says. “Closer than most people get to see. And I’ll tell you this—you don’t do anything halfway.”

She smiles faintly. “That’s never been the problem.”

“No,” he agrees quietly. “The problem is you do everything all the way.”

They hold each other’s gaze.

He exhales.

“I’ll try.”

Not yes.

But not no.

She nods once. Accepts it like a contract clause.

“I have terms,” she says immediately.

Of course she does.

Zak’s laugh comes back, resigned. “Lay them on me.”

“I want Emerson Fittipaldi as my coach.”

“Fittipaldi?” He stares at her. “He's old, old school.”

“I want people who understand the track in their bones,” she replies simply. “Not people who understand it from a spreadsheet.”

Zak studies her again.

This isn’t bravado.

It’s clarity.

“You really don’t make this easy.”

She smiles—bright, unapologetic. “No. But I make it worth it.”

Silence settles between them. Not tense. Just heavy with implication.

Then Zak leans back against his desk, arms crossed.

“You realize,” he says slowly, “if you win Indy… that’s it. Triple Crown. Second driver ever.”

Her gaze drifts for half a second—not distant, just measured.

She hums lightly, like she’s been carrying that sentence folded in her pocket for years.

Then she looks back at him, eyes glinting.

“Well,” she says lightly, “if you’d given me a seat in F1, you could’ve had McLaren’s name on all three.”

Zak groans, loud and theatrical. “Why do you gotta twist the knife like that?”

She laughs—quick, delighted, unrepentant. “Keeps it sharp.”

He points at her. “You are a menace.”

“So I've been told.”

He shakes his head, but he’s smiling when he reaches for his phone.

“Don’t make me regret this,” he warns.

She stands, smoothing down her jacket.

At the door, she pauses, hand resting on the handle.

“I'll make you regret not doing it sooner,” she says cheerfully.

And then she’s gone.

The corridor feels quieter after she leaves.

Inside the office, Zak stares at the closed door for a long moment before dialing.

“Yeah,” he says into the phone. “I need to talk about something… ambitious.”

—

She finds Lando two floors down, leaning against a glass wall with a laptop open in front of him, eyes very obviously not focused on the screen.

He looks up the second she appears.

“Well?”

She doesn’t answer immediately. Just walks toward him with that dangerously neutral expression again.

“How do you feel,” she says casually, “about watching me try not to die at Indy?”

His face does about four emotions in quick succession.

Confusion.

Understanding.

Resignation.

And then something steadier.

“Of course you would,” he exhales, half laugh, half disbelief.

She steps closer, lowering her voice.

“You scared?”

He doesn’t hesitate.

“Yeah.”

Honest.

“But,” he adds, searching her face, “in the way that means you’re about to do something great.”

Her expression softens—just slightly.

She reaches for his hand, lacing their fingers together.

“Good,” she says.

He squeezes once, firm.

“You’re insane,” he murmurs.

She leans in, brushing her lips briefly against his jaw.

“Efficient,” she corrects again.

—

They stay tucked into one of the informal seating areas near the simulator corridor—half private, half visible to anyone who happens to pass.

He’s perched on the arm of a sofa, scrolling through his phone.

She’s leaning back properly, one leg crossed over the other, jacket folded beside her.

“Well,” Zak says.

They both look up.

He’s holding a coffee he hasn’t touched, expression somewhere between amused and managerial.

“Can I borrow you two for a minute?”

Lando groans immediately. “We’re in trouble.”

“You’re always in trouble,” Zak replies mildly. “This is different.”

Louise gestures toward the empty chair across from them. “Go on then.”

Zak sits, crossing one ankle over his knee.

“So,” he begins, glancing between them, “apparently you’re part of my brand strategy now.”

She smiles sweetly. “We both have clauses that prevent our teams meddling in our private lives.”

Zak blinks. “It didn’t even cross my mind.”

Louise tilts her head, studying him with exaggerated suspicion.

“We weren’t born yesterday, Zak. I can see the marketing glare in your eyes.”

Lando chokes on a laugh.

Zak points at her. “That is slander.”

“It’s not,” she replies calmly. “It’s pattern recognition.”

Zak places a hand dramatically over his chest. “I am wounded.”

“Are you?” she asks lightly. “Or are you calculating engagement metrics?”

He exhales, dropping the theatrics.

“Alright. Fine. It was… interesting seeing the statement. I am always invested in anything that trends globally with my driver’s name attached.”

He exhales through his nose, conceding nothing but denying even less.

“Look,” he says, leaning forward now, tone softening. “From a human perspective—I’m happy for you. Genuinely.”

Lando’s posture shifts subtly at that. Less defensive.

“But,” Zak continues, “from a business perspective… optics matter.”

Louise folds her hands loosely in her lap. “We’re aware.”

“There’s already chatter,” Zak says. “Speculation. What it means long-term.”

“For what?” Lando asks. “We’re dating. Not merging companies.”

Zak glances between them. “You’re aware the internet has already tried to build you both a joint garage?”

Louise lets out a short laugh. “They’re optimistic.”

“You’d never work at the same team,” Zak says, half statement, half question.

“No,” she answers immediately.

Lando nods. “Absolutely not.”

Zak raises a brow. “That quick?”

Lando points at her. “See? Told you.”

Zak sighs. “I hadn’t even—”

“You had,” she interrupts gently. “You’re thinking about optics. Power couple. Same garage. Dramatic radio messages. Documentary gold.”

He doesn’t deny it.

“So,” Zak says, eyes flicking between them. “Hypothetically. If I made you an offer to join McLaren?”

Louise doesn’t even blink.

“My first demand would be him gone.”

Lando turns to her, offended. “Excuse me?”

She shrugs. “Conflict of interest.”

Zak laughs. “Ruthless.”

“She’s joking,” Lando mutters.

She looks at him.

“…Mostly.”

He shakes his head, smiling despite himself. “Besides, you wouldn’t survive us as teammates.”

“Yes I would,” Zak shoots back automatically.

Louise turns slowly toward him. “You barely survived us at Le Mans.”

“That was endurance racing,” Zak argues.

“That was twenty-four hours,” she counters. “And you aged five years.”

Lando grins. “He had that twitch by hour eight.”

“I did not have a twitch.”

“You did,” they say in unison.

Zak points at them both. “You see? This is exactly what I mean.”

Lando leans back, satisfied. “Imagine that for twenty-four races.”

Louise nods thoughtfully. “Plus sprint weekends.”

Zak rubs his temple. “I would absolutely survive.”

She smiles sweetly. “You’d need two sporting directors and a therapist.”

He laughs despite himself.

Then his expression grows more thoughtful.

“Children,” he says mildly.

Louise looks back at him. “We already competed on track. We already raced together. We’re onto new challenges now.”

There’s something steady in her tone. Not defensive. Just decided.

Zak studies her, recalibrating.

“Fine,” he says slowly. “What if it wasn’t race-based?”

That makes her pause.

“What do you mean?”

“You wouldn’t even consider a technical director position?”

Her posture shifts almost imperceptibly.

Her ears might as well have perked up.

Lando notices immediately.

“Uh oh.”

She ignores him.

“A technical director,” she repeats carefully.

“You sit in the sim anyway. You interrogate our aero guys like it’s a hobby. Half my engineers respect you more than they respect him.”

“Hey,” Lando protests.

Zak shrugs. “I’m just saying. Hypothetically.”

She crosses her arms, thoughtful now.

“I wouldn’t immediately deny that,” she admits.

Lando turns to stare at her. “Oh, so when it’s me you shut it down instantly, but when it’s a technical director title—”

She nudges his knee with hers. “Relax.”

Then to Zak:

“But I don’t think you can afford me.”

Zak grins. “Try me.”

She smiles back, slow and sharp.

“Plus,” she adds lightly, “rivals to lovers always sold more.”

Zak laughs. “Now who’s thinking about marketing?”

She lifts one shoulder. “I pay attention.”

Lando looks between them. “Can we not commodify our relationship in front of me?”

“Too late,” Zak says cheerfully.

But the humor fades slightly as he looks at them again—not the drivers, not the assets.

He stands, smoothing his jacket.

“For what it’s worth,” he adds, glancing down at Lando, “I’m happy you’re happy.”

Then to Louise:

“And I’m happy you’re not trying to poach him.”

She smiles. “He doesn't fit the Aston profile.”

Lando splutters. “Excuse me?”

Zak laughs outright at that and starts to walk away.

“Oh—and one more thing,” he calls over his shoulder. “If you two start coordinating paddock outfits, I’m invoicing someone.”

“Marketing glare,” Louise murmurs under her breath.

Zak just waves dismissively and disappears down the corridor.

Silence lingers for a moment.

Then Lando looks at her sideways.

“Not Aston type?”

She stands, grabbing her jacket.

“Nothing personal,” she says lightly.

He hops off the sofa to follow her. “Rude.”

She slows just enough for him to catch up.

Their hands brush.

Then link.

Around them, the MTC continues humming—glass, ambition, legacy.

But as they walk down the corridor side by side, it feels less like scrutiny and more like something steady.

Professional lines drawn.

Personal lines chosen.

And absolutely no intention of making Zak’s life easy.

Then Lando nudges her shoulder.

“Technical director?”

She smirks. “Don’t panic.”

“I’m not panicking.”

“You are.”

He leans closer, lowering his voice.

“I'm planning our world domination,”

She meets his eyes.

“Fill me in once the draft it's finished.”

[lostfireflie]

No Title - Interlude

Written in the Stars 

Summary: The internet looks to the stars for an explanation. Louise and Lando look at each other instead.

Word Count: 1.5k

Masterlist

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The apartment is unusually quiet.

Not silent—Monaco never really is—but softened.

The balcony doors are cracked open just enough to let the evening drift inside. Somewhere below, a scooter whines through narrow streets before disappearing beneath the low murmur of conversations spilling from cafés. The sea carries sound strangely at night. Everything feels both close and impossibly distant.

Louise is stretched across the bed on her stomach, one leg lazily bent at the knee, absentmindedly scrolling.

It isn’t productive scrolling.

She’d told herself she’d answer emails.

Sort through photographs from last weekend.

Maybe finish annotating the script Charlotte had sent over.

Instead she’s ended up where she always occasionally ends up—Tumblr.

She tells herself it’s research.

It sounds more respectable than curiosity.

The tags dedicated to her have grown over the years into something oddly self-sustaining. They no longer revolve around races or competitions or campaigns. They’re little ecosystems now. Gifsets. Meta. Headcanons. Slow-motion edits of interviews she’d forgotten she’d even done. Someone once wrote nearly six thousand words analyzing the way she folds her sleeves whenever she’s uncomfortable.

It had been alarmingly accurate.

There’s something unnerving about watching strangers build versions of you from fragments.

And yet she keeps looking.

Perhaps because if she knows what people think they’re seeing, she never has to be surprised by it.

Her thumb slows.

A pastel graphic appears between two photo edits.

Pink.

Cream.

Little stars.

Far too many sparkles.

The font looks aggressively handwritten.

She almost scrolls past.

Instead—

She scrolls back.

The graphic proudly declares, in all caps,

WAIT.

LOUISE: Cancer ☀️ | Taurus ⬆️ | Scorpio 🌙

LANDO: Scorpio ☀️ | Cancer ⬆️ | Taurus 🌙

THIS IS ILLEGAL.

She snorts before she can stop herself.

“What…”

The notes already number somewhere well into the tens of thousands.

Someone has screenshotted it.

Someone else has added red circles and arrows.

Another person has replied with nothing except,

“I don’t even believe in astrology and somehow this ruined my day.”

Louise smiles despite herself.

She taps.

The original post opens.

Immediately she realizes this is not one of those quick jokes people reblog for five minutes before forgetting.

It’s…

organized.

There are headings.

Emoji dividers.

Bullet points.

Bolded sentences.

The kind of formatting that announces the author has spent far longer thinking about this than anyone probably should.

She settles a little deeper against the headboard.

“Okay,” the post begins.

“I need everyone to sit down because this chart combination is genuinely ridiculous.”

She laughs quietly.

Then keeps reading.

The introduction reads almost theatrically.

Cancer and Scorpio.

Water signs.

Mirrored Moon and Rising placements.

A Taurus foundation beneath everything.

The author describes it like they’re explaining the architecture of an ancient cathedral.

“This isn’t casual compatibility.”

“This is soul-bond, psychic tension, slow-burn devotion.”

Louise’s smile fades—not because she believes it, exactly, but because the certainty with which it’s written is oddly disarming.

Soul-bond.

The phrase hangs in the quiet bedroom longer than it deserves to.

She shifts, drawing one knee toward herself.

The first section begins.

☀️ SUN COMPATIBILITY

Cancer and Scorpio.

Cancer nurtures.

Scorpio protects.

Cancer softens.

Scorpio strengthens.

“This is a classic ‘us against the world’ pairing.”

She pauses.

Her mind doesn’t go searching for examples.

They simply arrive.

Lando stepping fractionally closer whenever photographers become too aggressive.

The unconscious way they always seem to stand shoulder-to-shoulder when people ask questions.

The private language built from tiny glances no one else notices.

The way neither of them ever has to ask if the other wants to leave.

They simply…

know.

She scrolls.

🌙 MOON COMPATIBILITY

Scorpio Moon.

Taurus Moon.

Opposites.

Intensity and stability.

The post insists opposite signs often create stronger attraction than matching ones.

“Scorpio Moon wants complete emotional merging.”

“Taurus Moon provides unwavering consistency.”

“Together they become exceptionally difficult to separate.”

Her thumb stills over one sentence.

This bond is hard to break.

Something about the wording makes her chest tighten unexpectedly.

Not because it’s romantic.

Because it’s strangely…

true.

Not inevitable.

Not magical.

Simply…

true.

There had been months where their schedules barely existed in the same time zone.

Weeks when every airport became another goodbye.

Seasons where every headline seemed determined to invent fractures where none existed.

And somehow…

they’d continued choosing each other.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Not because the stars demanded it.

Because every morning they’d simply…

chosen.

She keeps reading.

⬆️ RISING SIGNS

Comfort-core attraction.

Domestic intimacy.

Staying home.

Cooking together.

Building routines.

Being physically affectionate.

Louise laughs softly through her nose.

“This one’s cheating.”

Because anyone who has ever watched them for longer than five minutes could probably deduce that.

They don’t chase nightlife anymore.

Half their weekends are spent deciding whose turn it is to choose dinner.

He steals bites from her plate despite ordering something completely different.

She steals his hoodies despite owning enough clothes to fill three wardrobes.

Neither of them ever sits on opposite ends of the sofa.

She hadn’t noticed these habits forming.

One day they simply…

were.

The post describes them like evidence.

She experiences them as ordinary.

Somehow that makes them feel infinitely more precious.

She continues.

🔥 PHYSICAL CHEMISTRY

Scorpio.

Taurus.

Magnetic.

Consuming.

Extremely loyal.

She skims this section much faster.

Some things do not require the internet’s opinion.

The next heading catches her instead.

🧠 EMOTIONAL PATTERN RISKS

Potential issues.

Silent resentment.

Testing loyalty.

Withdrawing when hurt.

Stubbornness.

Neither wanting to soften first.

She tilts her head.

“…Mm.”

That one, unfortunately…

lands a little closer.

Not because it’s prophetic.

Because they’re both, admittedly, spectacularly bad at admitting they’re hurt before it calcifies into something more complicated.

She thinks of arguments that lasted hours because both of them insisted they were perfectly fine.

Of apologizing long after they’d already forgiven each other.

Of learning—slowly—that vulnerability is usually faster than pride.

Growth rarely makes for interesting astrology posts.

The final section appears.

💞 LONG-TERM POTENTIAL

The author does not hesitate.

“This isn’t a fling chart.”

“This is move in together, build a life, heal each other, become home.”

Home.

That word lands differently.

Not dramatically.

Quietly.

She stares at it.

Outside, someone laughs on the street below.

A glass clinks against another.

The apartment remains wrapped in its familiar evening stillness.

Home.

Not the apartment.

Not Monaco.

Not England.

Not whichever hotel happened to overlook whichever circuit that week.

Home had gradually become…

him.

Not in the dangerous way people sometimes meant.

Not dependency.

Not incompleteness.

Simply recognition.

The place she exhaled without thinking.

Footsteps echo down the hallway.

The bedroom door opens.

Lando walks in without looking up, still reading something on his own phone.

His hair is damp from the shower, grey T-shirt hanging loose over black joggers. He absently rubs a towel across the back of his neck before tossing it toward the laundry basket.

It misses.

Predictably.

He doesn’t notice.

Only when he looks up does he register her expression.

“What?”

She rotates the phone toward him.

“Apparently we’re cosmically concerning.”

He blinks.

Walks closer.

Leans over the bed.

Reads.

She watches his eyebrows climb higher and higher.

“…Illegal?”

“Apparently.”

“Hm.”

He scrolls.

Keeps scrolling.

His mouth slowly curls into a grin.

“They’ve made sections.”

“They made charts.”

“They’ve cited evidence.”

“They’ve cited us.”

“They’ve cited eye contact, Lando.”

He laughs.

A proper one.

Head tipping back.

“No, because look at this—”

He points.

“‘Quiet jealousy but deep devotion.’”

He snorts.

“They make us sound like a Victorian betrothed couple."

“They make you sound like one.”

“Oh?”

“‘I will burn the world for you,’ but in a calm voice.”

He places a hand dramatically over his chest.

“I would do it calmly.”

“I know.”

“You’d panic if I shouted.”

“I would.”

He nods once, entirely serious.

“See?”

She shakes her head, smiling despite herself.

He sits beside her, shoulder bumping hers.

“So.”

“So.”

“Do you think the universe planned all this?”

She considers the question.

“I don’t think planets decided anything.”

“No?”

“No.”

He waits.

She studies the post one last time before locking the phone.

“I think people like stories.”

“Yeah.”

“I think they like believing things fit together.”

“And us?”

She looks at him.

Really looks.

At the familiar face that’s become so woven into her ordinary life she sometimes forgets there was a version of herself who hadn’t known it.

“I think…” she says slowly, “if we’d had completely different birth charts, someone would still have found a way to explain it.”

He smiles.

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

She nudges him gently with her shoulder.

“But.”

“But?”

She rests her head against him.

“…I do think it’s funny they got one thing right.”

“Which one?”

She threads her fingers through his almost absentmindedly.

“The home part.”

His hand closes around hers automatically, as naturally as breathing.

Neither of them speaks again for a while.

The city continues beyond the open balcony.

Cars pass.

The sea breathes against the rocks.

Above them, the stars remain exactly where they have always been, entirely indifferent to birth charts, Tumblr analyses, and pastel infographics with too many sparkles.

Whether they had written this story years ago or not didn’t really matter.

Because whatever invisible force had drawn two stubborn, private people into the same orbit, it wasn’t something either of them found in constellations.

It was found here.

In the instinctive reach of his hand.

In the quiet absence of performance.

In the ordinary certainty that, after everything the world had made of them, they still ended each day exactly like this.

Together.

And perhaps that was enough to make even strangers look up at the sky, searching for an explanation.

[lostfireflie]

No Title - Sunlight and Agreements

Lando Norris x Louise Levine (Original Character)

Summary: The podcast ends, but the conversation doesn’t. A rainy drive to Nice turns into the quiet reset they both needed, where future plans feel a little less frightening, old habits of hiding begin to fade, and one sketchbook opens the door to something much bigger than either of them expected.

warnings and Notes: Explicit Smut! NSFW!

Word Count: 10.3k

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By the time the recording ends, no one is quite ready to press leave meeting.

There’s that lingering energy that happens when something unexpectedly good just occurred — no one wanting to be the first to break it.

Jason is still leaning toward his mic like there’s one more thought hovering on the tip of his tongue. Kylie’s smiling softly, eyes unfocused in that way that means she’s already replaying moments in her head — filing away quotes, expressions, tiny reactions. Travis is half out of his chair, one hand braced on the desk, like he physically can’t decide whether to stretch or stay. Taylor sits tucked into him, arms folded loosely, watching everything with that observant calm she gets when she’s storing memories.

“Alright,” Travis says finally, clapping once. The sound is louder than necessary. “I think that’s a wrap before Louise abandons us for a snack run again.”

Louise gasps, scandalized. “I came back.”

“You came back,” Jason corrects, nodding gravely. “Heroic behavior. We’re very proud.”

Kylie laughs. “Seriously though—thank you guys. That was… really good.”

The teasing drops just a notch.

Louise spins in her chair, one leg under herself. She tugs at the sleeve of her hoodie absently.

“Yeah,” she says. “Thank you for not… you know.” She gestures vaguely in the air between them. “Making it weird.”

There’s a tiny silence. The honest kind.

Taylor tilts her head slightly. “You made it easy.”

And that lands.

Not heavy. Not dramatic.

Just true.

Lando glances at Louise briefly — quick, subtle — like he’s checking that she’s okay with how much they just shared.

She meets his eyes for half a second and nods almost imperceptibly.

Lando lifts a hand in a small wave toward the camera. “Good seeing you all. Next time, preferably without a storm threatening our sanity.”

Jason grins. “No promises. We like drama.”

“Text when you get to Nice,” Kylie adds instinctively, already slipping into mom-mode without realizing it.

Louise nods. “If the power grid survives, you’ll hear from us.”

“Drive safe,” Taylor says quietly.

Travis points. “And no satellite surveillance while driving.”

“No guarantees,” Louise replies, deadpan.

Laughter again. Softer now.

They say their goodbyes — warm, unhurried, real. Not performative. Not rushed. Just people who genuinely like each other and aren’t quite ready to hang up.

One by one, the screens blink out.

The room dims in a way that feels bigger than just lighting.

Now it’s just the two of them.

The rain is still coming down hard, streaking the windows in uneven lines, the city outside blurred into water and light. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rolls — not violent, just persistent.

For about three seconds, they just sit there.

No microphones. No audience. No questions to answer.

Louise looks at Lando.

Lando looks at the ceiling.

Then back at her.

There’s something almost shy in the quiet. Like they both felt the weight of the episode, but neither wants to name it first.

“So,” he says carefully. “You sure you wanna go?”

She squints at him.

“You sure you wanna stay and deal with me if the power runs out and we lose the AC and the Wi-Fi?”

He considers that for exactly half a second.

“No Wi-Fi?” he repeats, deeply serious.

She nods solemnly.

“And no AC,” she adds. “In this humidity.”

He exhales through his nose. “Okay, pack a bag.”

She smiles, but it softens quickly.

“You were good,” she says suddenly.

He looks at her, caught off guard. “What?”

“Today.” She shrugs, like it’s nothing. “You were… good.”

He leans back in his chair, a little defensive now. “I’m always good.”

She gives him a look.

“I mean it,” she says more quietly. “The trust thing. The—” She waves vaguely toward the computer. “All of it.”

He looks at her for a moment longer than he needs to.

“I don’t joke about that,” he says simply.

That does something to her.

It’s small. Barely visible. But it’s there.

The rain hits harder against the glass.

She stands first.

“Alright. Fifteen minutes,” she says, slipping back into logistics mode. “You pack light. I’ll grab chargers. And—”

She stops mid-sentence.

He’s still watching her.

“What?” she asks.

“You’re overthinking,” he says gently.

She blinks. “I’m not.”

“You are.”

A beat.

“…maybe.”

He pushes himself up from the chair and walks over, stopping in front of her. Close enough that she has to tilt her chin up slightly.

“You know we don’t have to run from a storm, right?”

She studies his face, searching.

“I know,” she says. “I just don’t like feeling stuck.”

That’s the real answer.

He nods once. No teasing.

“Then we’ll go,” he says. “Not because we have to. Just because we can.”

That steadies her.

She reaches down, grabs his hand briefly — a quick squeeze — then lets go like it didn’t happen.

“Fifteen minutes,” she repeats.

He smirks. “You? Fifteen?”

She narrows her eyes. “Watch me.”

He laughs as she disappears down the hallway, already mentally listing items in order of importance.

From the bedroom she calls out, “If you bring more than three pairs of shoes, I’m throwing them out the window.”

“I need options!”

“You need limits!”

The rain keeps falling.

But the apartment doesn’t feel stormy anymore.

—

The drive west feels like a secret.

Monaco disappears behind them in streaks of wet asphalt and reflective glass, the storm still rumbling somewhere inland like it hasn’t realized they’ve left.

The rain thins near Cap-d’Ail.

Not all at once — just gradually. Droplets turn to mist. The windshield wipers slow, then pause, then stop completely. The sky shifts from slate to something softer, lighter, like someone’s carefully nudging a dimmer switch back toward morning.

Louise has her feet tucked under her in the passenger seat, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands. She scrolls for a minute. Stops. Scrolls again. Locks her phone. Unlocks it. Eventually gives up and just stares out the window.

Her reflection moves faintly against the glass, superimposed over the sea.

“You know,” Lando says casually, one hand steady on the wheel, the other tapping lightly against the console in rhythm with the music, “normal people decompress after emotional conversations.”

“I am decompressing.”

“You’ve been silent for ten minutes.”

“That’s my favorite way to decompress.”

He hums thoughtfully. “Fair.”

The road curves, and suddenly the sea opens up — wide and endless, streaked silver under the breaking clouds.

Louise lifts a hand and points.

“There,” she says quietly. “That’s where I start breathing again.”

He doesn’t need clarification.

He smiles without looking at her.

The car fills with that specific kind of quiet that isn’t empty — just shared.

After a minute, she speaks again, softer.

“Do you think we overshared?”

“No.”

“Even the Akira thing?”

He snorts. “Especially the Akira thing.”

She glances at him, studying his profile.

“You weren’t weird about it.”

He shrugs back. “Didn’t want to.”

She watches him for another beat.

Then nods once, like she’s filed that away somewhere important.

They talk in fragments after that.

About how Jason absolutely refused to let Travis be right about anything.

They talk about Akira — about how she’ll pretend to ignore him for five full minutes before demanding attention.

“She only does that because you baby-talk her,” Louise says.

“She likes it.”

“She tolerates it.”

“She loves it.”

“She loves me.”

He glances over, mock offended. “Rude.”

By the time they pull into Nice, the air feels different.

Warmer. Lighter.

The sky is clear here, just like Louise said. The pavement is dry. People are out walking. A couple sits on a bench facing the water like nothing dramatic has ever happened in the world.

It feels like they’ve slipped into a parallel version of the evening.

Dinner is late and easy.

A small place near the water. Windows open. The faint smell of salt in the air.

No phones on the table.

Louise steals food off his plate without asking.

He swats at her hand once.

“Excuse you.”

“You weren’t eating it.”

“I was pacing myself.”

“Wrong.”

She takes another bite just to prove a point.

He pretends to be deeply offended for about ten seconds before pushing his plate slightly closer to her.

She talks more here.

Looser. Unwound.

Her hands move when she speaks, animated, cutting through the air as she recounts something Travis said off-camera. She leans back in her chair when she laughs, head tipped, eyes bright.

He watches her between bites.

The way he always does when she forgets to be careful with herself.

There’s no edge to her here. No hyper-awareness. No calculating how much is too much.

Just her.

At one point she catches him staring.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Liar.”

“You’re loud.”

She narrows her eyes.

“Not in a volume way. In a happy way.”

That softens her immediately.

She looks down at her plate like she needs a second to hide the smile.

When they finally get back to the hotel, the windows in their room are cracked open.

No rain. No thunder.

Just the low murmur of the city settling — distant voices, a car door closing somewhere, the hum of late-night traffic far below.

Louise takes a warm shower changes into her soft pajamas. Climbs into bed. Pulls the blanket up to her chin.

“Five minutes,” she says.

She’s asleep in two.

—

Morning arrives so quietly it almost feels polite.

No alarms tearing through sleep. No calendar reminders vibrating across the bedside table. No engineers waiting on the other side of a phone call. No horses demanding breakfast. No flights to catch.

Just sunlight.

It slips through the gap in the curtains in slow ribbons, hesitant at first, before spilling confidently across the wooden floor. It stretches lazily over discarded clothes, climbs the edge of the bed, and settles across the rumpled white duvet like it had been expected all along.

It finds her.

Louise stirs beneath it before she’s fully awake, her body responding long before her mind does. She pushes herself upright almost unconsciously, the sheets gathering around her waist, hair tangled in every possible direction after a night’s sleep. Her head tips toward the warmth instinctively.

Her eyes never open.

They don’t have to.

The sunlight finds her anyway.

Lando notices immediately.

He’d been awake for nearly half an hour already, curled into the corner of the couch with a coffee he’d barely touched, answering emails he couldn’t remember receiving. At some point he’d stopped reading altogether, his attention stolen by the quiet movement across the room.

Now he simply watches.

She always does this.

No matter where they are—Monaco,England, hotels halfway across the world—if morning sun reaches the room, she’ll somehow find it. Like a flower following daylight without ever needing to think about it.

It makes something unexpectedly tender settle beneath his ribs every single time.

The golden light wraps around her shoulders, catches in the loose strands of dark hair framing her face, turning them almost copper where the sun hits. It softens every edge until she looks less like someone sitting on a bed and more like part of the morning itself.

There isn’t an ounce of tension in her.

No furrow between her brows.

No racing thoughts.

Just… peace.

He thinks, not for the first time, that she’s probably the only person he knows who can make existing look beautiful.

His hand reaches for his phone before he consciously decides to move.

The camera opens.

One picture.

Then another.

The tiny shutter sound is barely audible, but it earns him exactly what he’d hoped for.

A sleepy smile curves across her lips.

She doesn’t open her eyes.

Doesn’t ask what he’s doing.

She simply smiles, knowing.

“Morning, sunflower,” he says, his voice still rough with sleep.

The smile grows.

“Morning.”

“You found your spot already?”

She hums contentedly, tilting her face another fraction toward the warmth washing over her skin.

“It’s nice today.”

“It is.”

“Warm.”

“Mhm.”

He laughs softly.

“You say that like you’re reviewing it.”

“I am.”

She lifts one hand lazily, palm facing the window.

“I’d give it…” she pauses dramatically, “…nine and a half out of ten.”

“Oh?”

“It could be warmer.”

He snorts.

“The sun’s trying its best.”

“It’ll get there.”

God.

He loves her.

He sets the mug down before it grows cold entirely and crosses the room barefoot, the wooden floor cool beneath his feet while the sunlight warming the bed promises something entirely different.

The mattress dips gently beneath his weight as he climbs back beside her, careful not to disturb whatever strange ritual she’s conducting with the morning.

She doesn’t move away.

If anything, she leans into him without realizing she’s doing it.

He props himself against one elbow, close enough to study her properly.

She still hasn’t opened her eyes.

Her breathing is slow.

Even.

Content.

He reaches out almost absentmindedly, brushing a strand of hair away from her cheek.

“You happy?” he asks quietly.

Not because he’s fishing for reassurance.

Not because he doubts her.

Simply because it’s become one of the questions he asks most.

Not Are you okay?

Not What’s wrong?

Just…

Are you happy?

She answers before opening her eyes.

A small nod.

Then another.

“Very.”

Only then do her lashes lift.

The morning light catches in her eyes immediately, turning the familiar green softer somehow, brighter around the edges. She blinks once against the brightness before looking directly at him.

He searches her face for a second longer than necessary.

Not because he expects the answer to change.

Because he likes seeing it.

Likes knowing.

Likes collecting these little confirmations the way other people collect photographs.

Satisfied, he leans forward until his forehead rests gently against hers.

Neither of them speaks.

They don’t need to.

Their breaths mingle in the tiny space between them, warm against cool morning air, while somewhere outside Nice begins another day. Cars drift through distant streets. Someone laughs below. A scooter buzzes past the hotel.

It all feels impossibly far away.

As though the sunlight has wrapped itself around the room and muted the entire world.

Louise’s hand slides lazily across the blankets until it finds his chest.

She presses her palm there, feeling the slow, steady beat beneath his ribs.

He stays exactly where he is.

She traces absent circles against his T-shirt.

“You’re staring.” she murmurs eventually, her voice still thick with sleep.

“I am.”

One corner of her mouth lifts.

“Should I be worried?”

He pretends to consider it.

“Depends.”

“On?”

“Whether you’re planning on moving.”

She laughs quietly, the sound barely louder than the breeze slipping through the cracked window.

“And if I am?” She finally opens one eye suspiciously.

“I’d be disappointed.”

She studies him for another long second before narrowing her eyes suspiciously.

His thumb brushes lightly along her jaw, following the curve of her cheek almost absentmindedly.

“I’m just making sure,” he says.

“Making sure?”

“That you catch all the light.”

She groans.

“It came from the heart.”

“It should’ve stayed there.”

He laughs, unable to help himself.

Then, gently, one hand slides around her waist, encouraging her to lie back again.

She goes willingly, sinking into the pillows with theatrical resignation.

“There,” he says.

Her hair fans across the white sheets in messy waves, sunlight spilling over her shoulders, tracing the line of her collarbone before drifting lower across her shirt.

The room glows around her.

He braces one arm beside her head, hovering above without putting his weight on her.

His eyes narrow thoughtfully.

She waits.

He raises his phone again.

She sighs dramatically.

“Lando.”

“Don’t move.”

“I wasn’t planning to.”

“Excellent.”

Another click.

Then another.

She watches him over the edge of the phone with poorly concealed amusement.

“You are,” she declares, “ridiculous.”

He lowers the phone just enough to grin.

“Shh.”

She raises an eyebrow.

“This is art.”

She rolls her eyes so hard she’s fairly certain he hears it.

“You’re impossible.”

He leans down just enough to brush a quick kiss against the tip of her nose.

She snorts so suddenly she startles herself.

For a second, neither of them says anything.

Then they dissolve into quiet laughter, the kind reserved for mornings that belong to no one else, while the sunlight continues its slow climb across the bed, perfectly content to keep them exactly where they are.

The phone slips forgotten onto the duvet with a muted thud.

As Lando decides that digital captures are no substitute for the real thing. He doesn’t just want to look at her; he wants to feel the warmth of her skin against his own.

He reaches for the hem of her oversized sleep shirt, his fingers brushing lightly against her waist before pausing. There is no urgency in the gesture, no assumption—only the quiet familiarity of two people who know each other well enough that even silence can become a conversation.

She meets his eyes.

One tiny nod.

Permission.

He smiles almost imperceptibly before lifting the fabric slowly over her head, careful not to catch her hair. The shirt lands somewhere near the foot of the bed without either of them paying it any attention.

“There,” he murmurs, unable to hide the quiet admiration in his voice.

“Now you’re definitely catching all the light.”

The morning sun spills across her skin, painting warm gold over her shoulders and tracing soft highlights along the curve of her arms. Louise lets out a slow breath, instinctively turning her face toward the window again before looking back at him.

He simply… looks.

Not with the restless hunger of someone trying to memorize every inch before it disappears.

With the quiet appreciation of someone who still can’t quite believe he gets to wake up beside her.

His fingertips drift gently along her arm before settling at her waist.

He exhales through a smile. “You’re beautiful.”

Color creeps into her cheeks almost instantly.

She ducks her chin, suddenly fascinated by the duvet gathered around her legs.

Lando laughs softly.

Louise lets out a soft, shaky exhale, her fingers curling into the fabric of his T-shirt. She closes her eyes again, but this time it isn't to seek the sun; it's to focus on the sensation of his palms pressing into her hips. The silence of the room is replaced by the rhythmic, quickening sound of their breathing.

He dips his head, his lips finding the sensitive dip where her shoulder meets her neck. He kisses her there, a slow, searing press of heat that sends a shiver cascading down her spine. Louise arches her back instinctively, her head tilting to give him better access, a small, needy sound escaping her throat. Lando groans low in his chest, the sound vibrating through her.

Lando’s lips don’t just touch her; they claim her. He lingers at the curve of her shoulder, his breath hot and damp against her skin, before drifting lower. He traces the line of her collarbone with a series of light, flickering kisses, each one a deliberate spark that ignites a trail of heat across her chest. He moves with a patient rhythm.

As he descends, his mouth finds the soft swell of her breast, his tongue swirling teasingly. He feels her shudder beneath him, her fingers tightening in his hair. He doesn’t rush the descent; instead, he meanders, his kisses becoming shorter and more frequent as he trails a path down the center of her stomach.

Louise’s breath hitches, her eyes fluttering shut as she loses herself in his touch. She feels the slight scrape of his stubble against her midriff, a contrast to the softness of her own skin that makes her hips tilt upward, searching for more.

Lando pauses for a heartbeat, his forehead resting against her stomach, his eyes looking up to catch hers. The playfulness of the morning has shifted into something deeper. He sees the desire mirrored in her gaze, the way her pupils have dilated, swallowing her irises. He doesn't say a word; he doesn't have to.

Louise doesn’t let the silence linger. Her hands, usually so cautious with the world, find the solid breadth of his shoulders with a sudden, grounding certainty. She hooks her fingers into the fabric of his shirt and tugs him upward, pulling him back from her stomach until their lips are inches apart.

“My turn,” she says.

The distance is a tease, a flicker of tension that she snaps shut with a kiss that tastes of sleep and sudden, sharp hunger.

As their mouths lock, her palms slide beneath the hem of his T-shirt. To the warmth of his back, the dip of his waist—and she begins to guide the fabric upward in one fluid motion. She keeps her eyes closed, refusing to break the kiss even as the fabric bunches around his chest. She works with a focused intensity, her fingers grazing the skin of his ribs, pushing the shirt higher and higher until it catches at his shoulders. Lando lets out a muffled sound of approval against her lips, his own hands sliding down to lock her thighs against his hips, pinning her to the sheets. He struggles for a second, half-laughing into the kiss, before he finally has to break the contact to pull the shirt over his head and toss it blindly toward the floor.

The air hits his chest, but the chill is instantly erased by the heat radiating between them. He settles back onto her, his skin sliding against hers, a perfect fit of muscle and softness. She wraps her arms around his neck, pulling him down until there isn’t a single millimeter of space left between them.

Lando’s hands wander with a renewed urgency, tracing the curve of her hips before sliding lower, his fingers dipping beneath the waistband of her remaining clothes. He moves with a slow, rhythmic deliberation, his touch light enough to make her shiver but firm enough to ground her. He finds the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, his thumb grazing the surface in a way that makes her breath hitch. He knows the exact pressure she needs—not too much, not too little—creating a sensory loop that pulls her deeper into the bed and further away from the waking world.

He shifts, his knee sliding between her legs to nudge them apart, creating a space that he fills with a slow, steady press of his body. Louise lets out a soft, broken moan, her head tossing back against the pillow as she feels the hard line of him against her.

Louise’s hand wanders, searching for the final barrier between them. Her fingers hook into the waistband of his boxers, tugging with a sudden, impatient urgency that speaks louder than any word she could mutter. She wants him—all of him.

Lando lets out a low, vibrating chuckle, his muscles tensing beneath her touch. He doesn't give in immediately; instead, he catches her wrist with a gentle firmness, pinning her hand back against the mattress. "Not yet," he murmurs, his voice a gravelly velvet that sends a fresh wave of heat pooling in her belly. "I’m not done with you."

He descends again, his lips returning to the pale expanse of her skin with a renewed, predatory patience. He begins a slow, rhythmic migration from her hip back up toward her chest, taking turns between deep, searing kisses and soft, fluttering murmurs. "You're so beautiful," he whispers against the curve of her ribs, the vibration of his voice tickling her skin and making her breath come in short, jagged gasps. "God, Louise... you're just perfect."

The praise makes she squirm beneath him, her body arching as he kisses the soft underside of her breast, his words becoming a soft, humming litany of adoration. The tenderness is intoxicating, but the anticipation is becoming an ache.

"Lando," she groans, her voice playful but strained. "Stop talking."

Lando doesn’t need a second invitation. He lets out a huff of a laugh, a sound that is more breath than voice, and slides downward. He descends with a slow, purposeful intent, his chest skimming over hers until he is positioned between her thighs. The shift in position brings a new kind of intensity, the cool morning air hitting his back while the heat radiating from her center becomes the only thing in his universe.

He starts with a teasing brush of his lips against the soft skin of her inner thigh, a flicker of contact that makes her hips jerk reflexively. He lingers, kissing the sensitive skin of her groin, tracing the delicate line of her pelvic bone with the tip of his nose. When he finally reaches her, he doesn’t dive in. Instead, he uses his tongue to trace the outer edges of her heat, a slow, swirling motion that coaxes a sharp, broken gasp from her lungs.

Then, he presses deeper. His tongue is firm and wet, licking upward in a long, steady stroke that makes Louise’s fingers lock into the sheets. He finds her clit, and swirls his tongue around it with a rhythmic precision. He sucks her softly, a gentle draw that sends a jolt of electricity straight to her core, before returning to the steady, flicking motion of his tongue. He knows exactly how she likes it—the consistency of the pressure, the slow build-up that allows her to lean into the sensation without it becoming too much.

As he continues to focus on her, his hand slides upward, his fingers finding the slick, welcoming heat of her. He slides one finger inside her with a slow, deliberate glide, feeling the walls of her tighten around him in a rhythmic pulse. He begins a slow, steady movement, fingering her with a cadence that matches the flick of his tongue.

She is no longer thinking about the sunlight, the city of Nice, or the world beyond the duvet. There is only the feeling of Lando’s breath against her thighs and the overwhelming, humming vibration of her own body. She arches her back, her heels digging into the mattress, her breath coming in short, shallow hitches. Every time she thinks she has reached the peak, he adjusts the pressure, swirling his tongue just a fraction differently or deepening the stroke of his finger, keeping her suspended in a state of exquisite, agonizing tension.

Lando could feel the tension in her, the way her muscles coiled and tightened like a spring wound too tight. She was hovering on the precipice, her breath coming in those short, jagged bursts that told him she was fighting the urge to surrender, trying to hold onto the sensation for just one second longer. He shifted slightly, his mouth grazing the sensitive skin of her inner thigh as he leaned in, his lips barely skimming the surface.

“Stop fighting it, Lou,” he whispered, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that resonated deep in her core. He didn't pull away; instead, he pressed his face closer to her heat, his warm breath blooming against her skin. “I know you want to. Just come for me. Just let go.”

The vibration of his words seemed to ripple through her entire nervous system, shattering the last remaining wall of her restraint.

As if answering a silent command, Lando returned to her with a sudden, focused intensity. He locked his lips around her, sucking her clit with a firm, rhythmic draw that pulled a loud, shattered cry from her throat. Simultaneously, he deepened the slide of his finger, the friction of the movement hitting exactly the right spot with an insistent, rhythmic pressure. The combination of the suction and the depth was too much to resist. Louise’s world fractured into a thousand points of light, and she came in a sudden, crashing wave that left her shaking beneath him, her hips bucking instinctively against his mouth.

He didn't pull away immediately, lingering for a few more seconds to savor the rhythmic pulses of her release, his finger sliding in and out one last time to draw out every single drop of pleasure. When he finally looked up, his face was flushed and his eyes were dark, mirroring the sheer intensity of the moment. He saw her lying there, chest heaving, eyes wide and glazed with a shimmering, post-orgasmic haze, and he felt a surge of possessiveness that made his own blood roar in his ears.

Lando didn't move for a long moment, simply bracing himself on his elbows to take her in. The sunlight had shifted, now casting a shimmering, pearlescent glow over the curve of her ribs and the flushed valley of her chest. She looked undone—hair a chaotic halo against the white linens, her skin damp and glowing, her breath coming in those shallow, staggered hitches that always sounded to him like a secret being told in fragments. There was something about the way she looked in the aftermath, stripped of her usual guardedness, that made him feel an ache of protectiveness and desire all at once. He watched the slow rise and fall of her stomach, the way her pupils were still blown wide, and he knew he couldn't wait another second to be inside her.

With a fluid, impatient motion, he reached down and hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers. He shed them in one swift movement, kicking the fabric away with a lack of grace that would have been funny if the tension in the room weren't so thick. He didn't just crawl back up the bed; he reached for her, his hands sliding under her armpits and tugging her upward with a gentle, commanding strength.

Louise came willingly, her body feeling heavy and pliant. She let him guide her until she was sitting up, her legs naturally parting to wrap around his waist. He settled himself between her thighs, pulling her into a tight, intimate lotus position. Now, they were eye-to-eye, skin-to-skin from chest to knee, their hearts beating in a frantic, mismatched rhythm that only served to heighten the urgency. The position left them completely exposed to one another, the morning heat of the room blending with the feverish warmth of their bodies.

Louise buried her face briefly against his shoulder, laughing breathlessly when her hair fell over her face, obscuring her vision.

“Occupational hazard,” Lando teased, gently brushing the waves back from her forehead.

“I could get a haircut,” she murmured.

“Never.”

He cupped her face, his thumbs tracing the line of her jaw with a tenderness that contrasted the hunger in his eyes. He could feel her shaking slightly—not from cold, but from the residual electricity of her climax and the anticipation of what was coming next. Louise leaned forward, her forehead resting against his, her fingers digging into the muscles of his upper arms. She was breathing his scent—something clean and warm—and it felt like the only anchor she had in a world that had suddenly become nothing but sensation.

Lando lingered in the space between them, his lips grazing hers in a series of soft, fluttering kisses that felt like a conversation. Between each press of his mouth, he began to speak, his voice a low, vibrating hum that she could feel in her own chest.

"You have no idea," he murmured, his breath warm against her cheek, "how much I love this. Just waking up and seeing you here. The way you look in the light... it's actually unfair." He kissed the corner of her mouth, then her jaw, his words tumbling out in a rush of honest, unfiltered affection. "I love the way we talk. I love the way you think. I love just... being in the same room as you, even if we're not doing anything at all."

He shifted his grip, his hands sliding down to the curve of her waist, squeezing gently. "You're so beautiful, Lou. Everything about you." He peppered her face with tiny, rapid-fire kisses—her forehead, her eyelids, the tip of her nose. "Your eyes, the way they look at me... and your smile. God, your dimples." He paused to kiss the indentation in her cheek, his voice dropping an octave. "And your waist... and your ass... just perfect."

The intensity of the praise, so sudden and so thorough, sent a different kind of heat through her. Louise felt a familiar prickle of shyness, a sudden urge to retreat from the sheer weight of his adoration. She let out a small, embarrassed noise and ducked her head, burying her face in the crook of his neck. She tried to hide there, her skin flushing a deep crimson, her breath warm against his collarbone.

Lando chuckled, the sound vibrating through his chest and into her. He didn't let her hide for long, his hand sliding up to gently tilt her chin back up, forcing her to meet his gaze. "Don't hide," he whispered, his eyes searching hers with an intensity that made her heart stutter. "I want to see you. I want to see everything."

Louise stayed tucked into the crook of his neck for a moment longer, the heat of her blush radiating against his skin. Slowly, she peeled herself away, though she couldn't quite bring herself to meet his eyes. Instead, her gaze dropped to his chest, focusing on the rhythmic rise and fall of his breathing. She pressed a lingering, tentative kiss to the line of his jaw, her lips tracing the slight grit of his morning stubble.

Her hand began a slow, wandering journey across his body. She traced the hard line of his collarbone, sliding down to the center of his chest where his heart hammered like a trapped bird. As her fingers dipped lower, mapping the defined ridges of his abs and the dip of his waist, she finally found her voice. It was small, barely a whisper, but it carried a weight of honesty that made Lando go completely still.

"I love you," she murmured, her eyes still fixed on the movement of her own hand against his skin. "I love... everything. How safe you make me feel. How the world just gets quiet when I'm with you." She shifted her grip, her palm flattening against his stomach. "I love your laugh. And your nose. And your shoulders." A tiny, shy smile flickered on her lips as her hand ventured further, grazing the firm curve of his glutes. "And your ass is... also perfect."

Lando let out a strangled sort of laugh, his chest heaving. The admission, delivered with such a mix of vulnerability and sudden playfulness, hit him harder than the physical desire. He tightened his hold on her waist, pulling her so close that there was no longer any air between them. He didn't want to joke; he wanted to sink into her.

"You're trying to distract me," he breathed, his voice thick and strained. "You're trying to make me lose my focus."

“I’m not distracting you,” Louise whispered, her voice regaining a hint of that playful edge. “I’m just providing a factual review of the scenery.” To emphasize her point, her hand didn't stay on his hip; it slid back down with a slow, deliberate confidence, gliding over the tension of his thighs until her fingers closed around him. He was rigid, pulsing with a need that matched the frantic beat of her own heart, and the feeling of him—hot and heavy against her palm—made her breath hitch.

She didn't plunge in all at once. Instead, she gave him a few tentative, teasing pumps, her grip firm but cautious, testing the waters of his restraint. She watched his face, noting the way his jaw tightened and the way his eyelids fluttered, his breath hitching in a ragged, desperate staccato. The power of it—the knowledge that she could make him unravel with a few simple movements—sent a thrill of heat radiating through her.

Lando’s head fell back, a low, pained groan escaping him. He looked like he was fighting a losing battle with his own self-control. His hands gripped her waist, his knuckles white, as he struggled to keep his breathing even. He looked back at her, his eyes dark and clouded with an intensity that felt almost tactile.

“Do you want more?” he rasped, the question barely a whisper, yet it filled the entire space between them. “Do you want all of it, Lou?”

Louise didn’t answer with words. She simply nodded, her gaze locked onto his, her expression one of raw, honest longing. The vulnerability of the moment felt like a physical weight, a shared secret that they were both drowning in.

“Don't look away,” Lando commanded, his voice a low, rough, singular, thrum of sound that anchored her to the moment. He didn't want her to blink, didn't want her to drift into her own mind; he wanted her entirely present, witnessing the way he was coming apart for her. His grip on her waist tightened, his fingers digging into the soft give of her skin as he shifted her weight. With a sudden, coordinated surge of strength, he lifted her just a few inches, suspending her in the air for a heartbeat of breathtaking tension before guiding her down.

The descent was slow, a deliberate slide of skin and heat that culminated in the heavy, filling press of him entering her. Louise let out a sharp, jagged gasp, her head falling back as she felt him stretch her, filling the void with a searing, absolute presence. But Lando didn’t let her look away. He hooked his hands behind her neck, pulling her forward until their faces were inches apart, his eyes locked onto hers with an intensity that felt almost invasive in its honesty. He watched her expression fracture, his gaze tracing the way her pupils dilated and the way her lips parted to catch the air, recording every flicker of pleasure as it crossed her face.

Louise clung to him, her arms wrapped tightly around his neck, her fingers tangling in his hair. She felt a surge of emotion that transcended the physical, a sense of being seen and known in a way that made the noise of the outside world feel utterly irrelevant.

“Lando... please...”

Lando shifted his weight, guiding them both backward in one fluid motion. He lowered her onto the mattress with a slow, careful deliberation, ensuring that the connection between them remained unbroken. They sank into the pillows together, but he didn't release her; instead, he kept her legs locked firmly around his hips, anchoring her to him so that they remained flush, chest to chest, skin to skin. The transition from the vertical to the horizontal only served to deepen the intimacy, the bed absorbing the impact of their combined weight as he settled over her, his body a heavy, warm canopy that shielded her from everything but the present.

With her legs still hooked tightly around his waist, Lando found a new, more devastating angle. He braced himself on his forearms, his muscles trembling slightly from the effort of holding himself up, while his hips continued that steady, rhythmic drive. The friction was heightened, the pressure more focused, sending sparks of white-hot pleasure radiating through Louise’s lower belly. She felt the sheer solidity of him, the way he seemed to occupy every available inch of her space, and she let out a long, shuddering moan that vibrated against his collarbone.

He watched her, his gaze unwavering, capturing the way her expression shifted from longing to a raw, open vulnerability. He could feel the internal tremors of her body, the way she was beginning to tighten around him in a series of frantic, involuntary pulses. Lando’s own breath had become a series of jagged, desperate hitches. He began to pick up the pace, the slow conversation of their movement turning into a frantic, urgent demand. Each thrust was deeper than the last, a focused search for the exact point that would shatter them both.

Louise’s fingers dug into the muscles of his back, her nails scratching light trails into his skin. The sensory world had collapsed entirely; there was no more sunlight, no more room, only the rhythmic, thumping heat of their union. She felt the climb—that sudden, steep ascent toward a peak that felt inevitable and overwhelming. She arched her back, her hips rising to meet him, her voice breaking into a series of soft, rhythmic whimpers that urged him on.

Lando let out a low, guttural sound, a noise that was half-groan and half-surrender. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, his teeth grazing her skin as he gave one final, powerful surge. The world exploded into a blur of gold and heat as they hit the peak together, their bodies locking in a fierce, trembling embrace. He held her tight, his heart hammering against her chest in a frantic synchronization, as they both spiraled downward through the aftershocks, clinging to each other in the sudden, heavy silence of the room.

Lando didn't just let go; he collapsed beside her with a heavy, contented sigh, the momentum of his fall pulling Louise with him until they were entwined in a messy, warm heap of limbs. He didn't distance himself for even a second, immediately hooking an arm around her waist to anchor her against his side. The air in the room felt thick and sweet, the silence returning as a soft, velvet blanket that dampened the distant sounds of the city. As their breathing gradually slowed from a frantic race to a steady, synchronized hum, Lando began to trace the line of her temple with his fingertips, his touch light and reverent. He pressed a series of slow, lingering kisses into her hair, the scent of her shampoo mixing with the salt and heat of their exertion.

Louise felt a heavy, golden languor settling over her. The sensory intensity of the last hour had left her in a state of profound softness, her muscles feeling like warm wax. She curled closer into his side, her head resting in the hollow of his shoulder, and felt her eyelids growing heavy. The rhythmic thrum of Lando's heart beneath her ear was like a lullaby, pulling her back toward the edge of a deep, dreamless sleep. The world had narrowed down to this same small patch of sunlight and the comforting weight of his arm across her.

A small, amused huff vibrated against her forehead. "No way," Lando murmured, his voice still husky and thick with lingering heat. "You can't actually be drifting off already."

Louise let out a tiny, protestant hum, her voice barely a thread of sound. She didn't want to move; the idea of leaving the cocoon of the sheets and the warmth of his skin felt like an impossible task. She tightened her hold on him, shifting her face further into his neck to hide from the sudden intrusion of the waking world.

Lando chuckled, the sound low and warm. He shifted slightly, kissing the tip of her ear as he teased her. "You're a menace, Lou. You haven’t even properly woken up.”

“Mhm.”

“And you’re already going back to sleep.”

She burrowed deeper into his neck as though hiding from the accusation.

“I’m resting.”

He grinned.

“You’re unbelievable.”

Louise only made another contented little noise, the sort of sound someone made when they were already halfway inside a dream.

He waited.

Five seconds.

Ten.

Her breathing slowed another fraction.

“Lou.”

Nothing.

He brushed his fingertips lightly up and down her back.

“Louise.”

“Hm?”

One eye cracked open with visible effort.

He couldn’t help himself.

He tipped his head down and pressed a kiss into her temple, lingering there for a second before pulling back.

“You are the sleepiest person I’ve ever met.”

“I’m just listening with my eyes closed.”

—

Eventually, they start their day.

They eat breakfast in stages — beverages first, then fruit glistening with condensation, pastries that look too perfect to touch, eggs they split without discussing who ordered what.

Louise steals the last strawberry without asking.

Lando pretends to object.

“You’ve had four.”

“I’ve earned them.”

“Based on what metric?”

“Vibes.”

He lets it go.

Afterward, they change into comfortable clothes — not coordinated, but accidentally complementary. Soft cotton. Worn-in to remember their shapes. The kind of outfits that signal no one is trying to impress anyone.

The balcony doors stay wide open.

Nice in the morning feels different than Monaco. Less polished. More lived-in. The air is sharp and citrusy, touched with salt from the sea. The water beyond the railing is silver-blue, restless, shifting constantly under the sun like it refuses to settle.

The curtains breathe in and out with the breeze.

Louise is barefoot, sitting cross-legged on the bed. Her iPad lies abandoned beside her, screen dimming and brightening every few seconds because she hasn’t actually touched it in a while.

Lando is at the small table by the window, phone in hand, scrolling absently.

Pretending.

Every time she shifts, the light catches along her collarbone, down the line of her shoulder. He notices every single time.

He clears his throat.

“I think,” he says casually — far too casually — “it’s time for our annual agreement update.”

She doesn’t look up.

“I hate when you phrase it like we’re a software subscription.”

“You love it,” he says easily. “Very professional. Very us.”

She snorts and finally glances at him.

“Okay. Fine. What clause are we revisiting today, Mr. Norris?”

He sets his phone down carefully, like this deserves full attention, and leans back in the chair.

“The time-and-distance clause. It’s a pain.”

“Rude,” she says immediately. “That clause has done a lot for us.”

“It has,” he agrees. “Solid performance. No major bugs.”

“Minimal crashes.”

“But it’s about to get… ambitious.”

She shifts, pulling her knees tighter to her chest, chin resting briefly on them.

She already knows.

“Okay,” she says. “Lay it on me.”

“We’re together until pre-season testing,” she begins before he can, like she’s reading off an internal calendar.

He blinks. “You weren’t supposed to steal my line.”

“Too slow.”

“That’s late February,” he continues anyway.

“Correct. Then I’m off to L.A.”

“Olympics prep.”

“Unfortunately,” she says dryly. “Very inconvenient of me.”

He smiles faintly at that.

“And the Olympics end in July.”

She tilts her head, thinking it through like she’s mapping logistics in real time.

“The very last day, technically. Though my events are in the first… two weeks? Three? Charlotte knows. I just show up where I’m told.”

“That makes us both free for summer break.”

“Great,” she says instantly, too brightly. “Perfect. Solved.”

There’s a beat.

He doesn’t smile back.

She notices.

“But,” he says carefully, “I still want to address the four-month period in between.”

She groans and flops backward dramatically onto the bed, arms spread.

“If we ignore it,” she says to the ceiling, “will it go away?”

“Unfortunately,” he echoes her tone, “no.”

She rolls to the edge of the bed, studying him upside down.

“Lame.”

He stands and walks over, perching on the edge of the bed near her head.

“I just want to know,” he says, softer now, less joking, “if you want me to come to you on my weeks off.”

The breeze moves the curtains again.

The sea keeps shifting.

The room grows quiet in that specific way it does when something important is being handled gently.

She doesn’t answer immediately.

Because the answer isn’t logistical.

It’s emotional.

She sits up slowly.

“Yeah,” she says finally. “I want that.”

Her voice is steady, but there’s something vulnerable tucked into it.

“But only if you’re actually free,” she continues. “No pushing reunions. No stacking filming days. No squeezing me between sponsor dinners because you feel like you should.”

He raises both hands slightly in surrender. “Copy.”

“I’m serious,” she says, leaning forward now. “I don’t want you packing race weeks with extra work because of me. And I don’t want to feel like I’m stealing time from the thing you’ve worked your whole life for.”

He studies her face.

“You’re not stealing anything,” he says quietly.

She ignores that for now.

“If I come home exhausted and you’re there but you’ve slept four hours because you flew across time zones just to prove a point, I will be annoyed.”

“Noted.”

“I mean it.”

“I know.”

He shifts closer, sitting fully on the bed.

“If I come, it’s because I have the space,” he says. “If I don’t, it’s because I don’t. No guilt. No scorekeeping. No ‘you came to me twice so now I owe you three.’”

Her eyes flicker at that.

Because that’s the thing she was worried about.

“You don’t owe me anything,” he adds.

She studies his face like she’s searching for the version of him that sometimes overcompensates.

The one who tries to optimize everything.

She doesn’t find him.

Instead, she finds someone calm. Certain.

“Okay,” she says finally.

It’s small. But it’s real.

“Okay.”

He exhales — not dramatically — just a subtle release of tension he didn’t realize he was holding.

“Okay.”

She shifts closer until her knee bumps his thigh.

“What about you?” she asks. “Do you want that?”

He looks at her like the answer is obvious.

“Yes.”

She tilts her head. “Even if it’s chaotic? Even if I’m in full training mode and the only romance you get is me complaining about ice baths?”

“I’ve seen worse.”

“From me?”

“From you,” he confirms solemnly.

She nudges his shoulder with her foot.

He catches her ankle lightly and keeps it there, thumb brushing absentmindedly over her skin.

“I don’t need it to be perfect,” he says. “I just need it to be real.”

That does something to her.

Her shoulders soften.

“Okay,” she says again, quieter now.

The wind lifts the curtain between them for a second like a soft divider, then lets it fall.

“So,” he adds, tone shifting back toward teasing, “agreement updated?”

She considers.

“Conditional approval.”

“On what grounds?”

“If at any point you start acting like a martyr, I reserve the right to cancel the clause.”

He grins. “Fair.”

“And,” she adds, “if I start pretending I don’t miss you because I’m ‘focused,’ you’re allowed to call me out.”

He reaches forward and gently tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

“Deal.”

They sit there for a moment, the sea muttering outside like it’s in on the conversation.

Then he adds, quieter, “How are you feeling about it all? The Olympics.”

The word lingers differently than everything else they’ve said this morning.

Louise exhales slowly through her nose and tips her head back, staring at the ceiling like the answer might be written there.

“I’m—” She pauses. The breeze lifts a strand of her hair and drops it across her cheek. “I’m weird about it.”

He shifts toward her fully now, elbow resting on his knee, attention complete.

“Weird how?”

She drops her head, hair hiding her expressions. Her hands find the hem of his shorts.

“I don’t do well with just one thing. One goal. One finish line.” She gestures vaguely in front of her, fingers outlining something invisible and narrow. “When everything narrows like that, my brain starts pacing. I keep waiting for the bomb to go off.”

He studies her face, not interrupting.

“It’s like,” she continues, searching for it, “when all the noise disappears, I don’t relax. I get suspicious.”

A small smile pulls at his mouth.

“So you’re saying,” he says lightly, “you need chaos.”

She smiles despite herself. “Yes. Controlled chaos. But yes.”

He nods, warming to a thought.

“Okay,” he says. “Counterpoint.”

She squints at him immediately. “Oh no.”

“What if,” he continues, sitting up straighter, “I show up to watch you compete in the most unhinged outfit imaginable.”

She already knows this is going somewhere dangerous.

“I’m talking full national colors. Face paint. Foam finger the size of a small child.” He gestures wildly, hands expanding. “Maybe a sign. Definitely glitter.”

She snorts, then laughs — real, shoulders-shaking laughter.

“Lando.”

“I would be a spectacle,” he insists. “For morale.”

“You would get escorted out.”

“Worth it.”

She pretends to consider it, tapping her chin like a judge.

“Would you chant?”

“Oh, absolutely. I’d be unbearable.”

She shakes her head, still smiling. “Okay, no.”

“No?” he asks, mock wounded.

“No foam finger. No chanting. No glitter.”

“So many restrictions,” he sighs.

She nudges his knee with her foot.

“But,” she adds, softer now, “I would like you there.”

He stills.

Just slightly.

“In normal clothes,” she continues. “Looking normal. Acting… mostly normal.”

He presses a hand to his chest. “You’re asking a lot.”

“I'm sure you can manage.”

His smile this time is quieter. Less performative.

“Yeah,” he says. “I can.”

She leans forward, resting her head briefly in his lap. The contact is quick but intentional.

“You’re very good at this agreement thing,” she murmurs.

He lets his hand settle at her belly.

“We’ve had practice.”

She stays there for a moment longer than she needs to.

Then she sits up again and looks out at the sea again, voice softer.

“I think it would help. Not because I need cheering. Just—” She shrugs lightly. “Knowing I’m not doing it in a vacuum.”

“You wouldn’t be,” he says immediately. “Foam finger or not.”

She leans into him again, shoulder pressing into his arm, weight settling naturally.

“Good,” she murmurs. “Because if I see you in a mascot suit, I will pretend not to know you.”

“Noted.”

The breeze moves through the room again, salt and citrus and sunlight mixing together.

She’s quiet for a beat.

Then she shrugs — not dismissive. Just honest.

“It still hasn’t fully registered that we can… do that now.”

“Do what?”

“Show up,” she says. “Publicly. Without hiding.”

The word show up lands differently.

He nods slowly.

“Yeah,” he says. “I keep forgetting I don’t have to do that thing anymore.”

She glances at him. “What thing?”

He makes a vague motion with his hand, like he’s tucking something behind his back.

“The shading act. Standing two steps away. Looking busy when you walk into a room.”

She smiles, a little crooked.

“You were really bad at that.”

He huffs. “I know. I’d panic and suddenly find a wall fascinating.”

“You once stared at a fire extinguisher for ten straight minutes.”

“It had presence.”

“It was red.”

“It was intimidating.”

She laughs, then quiets again.

She folds one knee up onto and rests her chin against it.

He recognizes the posture instantly — half-comfort, half-guarded. The jokes are thinning. What comes next matters.

“It’s strange,” she says. “I’ve spent so long compartmentalizing. Schedules. Goals. People. Emotions.” She taps her temple lightly. “Everything had its own box. And now there’s this… open door.”

He watches her carefully.

“And that scares you.”

She nods once.

“A little… Not because of us.” She meets his eyes to make sure he hears that part. “Just because once you open it, you can’t unsee it. You can’t go back to pretending things don’t touch each other.”

He lets that sit.

“But they already were,” he says gently.

She looks at him.

“Our lives,” he continues. “They’ve been overlapping this whole time. We were just pretending they weren’t.”

Her shoulders ease slightly.

“Yeah,” she admits. “I know.”

A quiet stretches between them.

Not fragile. Just thoughtful.

“I think,” she says slowly, “showing up doesn’t mean performing. It just means… not shrinking.”

He smiles at that.

“I’m very bad at shrinking.”

She rolls her eyes.

But she leans into him again anyway.

He wraps an arm around her without hesitation, steady and certain. The kind of hold that doesn’t ask questions.

“Whatever it looks like,” he says quietly, “I’ll be there. Not hovering. Not hiding. Just… there.”

She closes her eyes for a second, letting that settle somewhere deep.

“Good,” she says. “Because I don’t want to do the next part alone.”

He presses a small kiss to the top of her head.

“You won’t.”

Outside, the sea keeps moving — steady, endless, unconcerned.

Big things are coming.

But right now, they’re just two people in an open room, letting the future feel possible instead of heavy.

—

The afternoon stretches lazily, the kind that feels borrowed rather than planned.

They take the long way around Nice with the windows down, warm air folding into the car, salt still lingering from the morning tide. The sun has settled into that early-golden angle — not blazing, just present.

Lando drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on Louise’s knee. His fingers tap absentmindedly in rhythm with whatever song she’s half-humming, half-forgetting the words to.

“You don’t know the chorus,” he says.

“I know the vibe.”

“That’s not how music works.”

“It is for me.”

He smiles, squeezing her knee lightly before returning his hand to the wheel.

They talk about nothing.

They talk about everything.

Lunch is simple — too much bread, something grilled and charred at the edges, olive oil pooling recklessly on the plate. They sit outside longer than necessary, sunglasses abandoned halfway through because they forget about them.

People-watching becomes a competitive sport.

“Divorced,” Louise whispers about a man two tables over.

“Second marriage,” Lando counters. “Still optimistic.”

“That woman?” she says, nodding subtly toward someone across the square. “Secret novelist.”

“No. Corporate lawyer with a wild group chat.”

They argue about it with unnecessary passion.

At some point Louise laughs so hard she has to grab his wrist to steady herself.

By the time they’re back at the hotel, the sun has shifted again — warmer, slower, heavier in tone.

Shoes are kicked off at the door.

Five minutes later they’re sprawled across the bed in that loose, unguarded way people only are when they don’t need to be anywhere else.

Louise lies on her stomach, chin propped on her forearms, scrolling her iPad without really reading. Lando leans back against the headboard, legs stretched out, watching her instead of the screen she’s pretending to care about.

He reaches for her without thinking.

Hooks his arm around her waist.

Tugs.

She slides backward with minimal resistance until her back settles against his chest, her body fitting into the space between his legs like it’s memorized the shape.

She sighs.

It’s quiet and content and unperformed.

“I have a pass time activity for you,” he says, tone deliberately neutral.

She perks up instantly. “Is it a challenge?”

“For you… Yes.”

The iPad is tossed aside without ceremony.

“Do I win anything at the end?”

He laughs, the sound vibrating through her shoulder blades. “Yes. But not immediately after.”

She twists her head to look up at him, eyes narrowed. “I hate this type of reward.”

“Fine,” he says, bending to press a soft kiss into her hair. “I’ll give you a kiss instead.”

She pretends to deliberate. “That’s better.”

He reaches over to the bedside table and pulls out the sketchbook.

The one she gave him for Christmas.

The corners are softened now. Used. Loved.

The oshawott pen slides out with it, the weight of it intentional.

Louise freezes the second she sees it.

“Oh.”

He opens it carefully.

The pages are full.

Not messy. Not rushed.

Thoughtful lines. Erased and redrawn edges. Bands sketched in different widths. Settings from multiple angles. Stones shaded in graphite. Small handwritten notes in the margins:

too sharp

maybe softer

she’d hate this

ask her

needs to survive riding and shooting gloves

She blinks slowly.

“You made me a build-your-ring station?”

He shrugs, suddenly a little bashful. “Looks like it.”

The air in the room shifts.

Not heavier.

Just more precise.

He flips through the pages slowly, narrating gently — not pitching, not selling.

“I didn’t want to assume anything,” he says. “So I just… drew. Thought about what you like. What you don’t. What would survive you actually wearing it.”

She huffs a small laugh. “Bold of you to assume I’d remember to wear it.”

“That’s why some of these are lower profile.”

He points to one.

“See? Minimal snag risk. Athlete-approved.”

She leans forward, studying.

“This one’s nice,” she says quietly.

He tilts the book so she can see better. “That’s a maybe. I wasn’t sure if it was too clean.”

She hums, brows knitting as she evaluates. “No, I like clean. But maybe not… sterile.”

He nods seriously, as if sterile is a catastrophic flaw.

“Okay. Not sterile.”

They go page by page.

She changes her mind mid-sentence.

“No, wait, I don’t like that.”

“Okay.”

“Actually—maybe I do.”

“Also okay.”

He doesn’t rush her.

Doesn’t tease her for circling back.

At one point she gets stuck between two designs and falls quiet, fingers hovering over the paper.

He feels the shift before she speaks.

He presses a soft kiss to her cheek.

“You don’t have to pick anything,” he murmurs. “If it doesn’t feel right, we stop.”

She exhales slowly.

Not overwhelmed.

Just aware.

“Okay,” she says. “Okay.”

They narrow it down together.

A band that feels solid but not heavy.

A setting that protects instead of shows off.

A stone shape that catches light quietly instead of demanding it.

She taps one sketch gently.

“This feels like me,” she says.

He looks at it.

Then at her.

“Yeah,” he agrees softly. “It does.”

There’s no dramatic music.

No cinematic gasp.

Just the quiet recognition of something that fits.

Eventually, she turns to face him fully, the sketchbook still open between them.

Spent — but in the best way.

“That was hard labour,” she declares.

He laughs. “You did great.”

She tilts her head back to look at him, eyes half-lidded but bright.

“I want my kiss.”

He doesn’t hesitate.

He pulls her closer, deliberately — one hand coming up to cradle her jaw.

The kiss isn’t rushed.

It’s warm.

Certain.

It lingers just long enough to say something without speaking.

When they part, she rests her forehead briefly against his.

“Okay,” she whispers.

“Okay,” he echoes.

Outside, Nice keeps glowing in that late-afternoon gold.

Inside, they stay exactly where they are — sketchbook open between them, graphite lines catching light.

The future resting quietly on the page.

[lostfireflie]

No Title - Interlude

Out and About

Summary: In the weeks after going public, Louise and Lando discover that ordinary moments don’t stay ordinary for long. Elevator rides, grocery shopping, pharmacy queues and late-night walks slowly find their way onto the internet—but instead of spectacle, strangers begin documenting something much quieter: the comfort of two people simply living their lives.

Word Count: 2.1k

Masterlist

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Monaco has always been small.

Not geographically—emotionally.

Everything echoes. Footsteps. Names. Rumors. Glances held half a second too long.

So when people start spotting them, it isn’t dramatic. It’s mundane. That’s what makes it dangerous.

Morning, Elevator Glass

It starts the way these things always do now—by accident.

Early morning. Monaco still quiet in that soft, expensive way it gets before the sun fully claims the streets. A woman waits in the lobby of her apartment building, takeaway espresso cooling between her hands as she scrolls through emails she has no interest in answering yet. Sunglasses are pushed into her hair. Brain still half-asleep.

The elevator dings. The doors slide open.

Lando steps out first, distracted, hair still damp like he didn’t quite commit to drying it properly. Phone in his hand, thumb hovering mid-scroll. Louise follows a step behind, hoodie pulled over her head, sunglasses hooked casually into the collar, barefoot in slides. She nudges his shoulder as she talks, words low and quick.

“…I’m telling you, I left them charging.”

“You said that yesterday.”

“Because I did.”

“You’ve said that about three different pairs.”

“I know.”

Trailing them, almost invisible in the way professionals are meant to be, walks a man dressed in neutral colours. Not imposing. Not theatrical. Just there. His attention drifts over reflections in the glass doors more often than faces.

They don’t look up. They’re halfway through a conversation neither of them feels the need to pause for.

The woman, however, does. Her brain lags behind the moment—that’s them—and by the time it catches up, the doors are already sliding shut again.

She stands there, stunned, adrenaline buzzing through her chest.

She does the only sane thing.

She tweets.

@.monacogirl97

okay i just saw LANDO NORRIS and LOUISE LEVINE just walking out of the elevator?? they were literally arguing about headphones like the most normal couple ever 😭

Replies flood in immediately.

“WHAT BUILDING.”

“NO WAY.”

“Did they have security???”

She stares at her phone, thumbs hovering.

@.monacogirl97

yeah but it wasn’t obvious?? there was just one guy with them. if you didn’t know what to look for you’d think he worked in the building or something

They never see any of it.

—

Lunch, No Reservations

It’s a Tuesday. Quiet by Monaco standards.

They walk into a small restaurant near the port—nothing flashy, no reservation, just somewhere they like because the owner doesn’t ask questions.

Lando sits with his back to the room. Louise faces out, not scanning, just… existing. They share a plate. He steals fries. She kicks his shin under the table.

A guy two tables over recognizes them halfway through his pasta.

He nudges his friend.

“Mate.”

“No way.”

They don’t interrupt. Don’t take photos. Just sneak one quick picture of their reflections in the window—blurred, imperfect, real.

Posted an hour later.

@.f1pastaenthusiast

not paparazzi, just lunch. they were laughing about something dumb and lando almost choked on water. human behavior confirmed.

Comments go feral.

“THEY EAT LIKE NORMAL PEOPLE???”

“No sunglasses, no hiding = insane confidence.”

“This is better than red carpet photos.”

Inside the restaurant, Louise leans in.

“Why are you smiling like that?”

He shrugs. “You’ve got sauce on your cheek.”

She wipes the wrong side.

He laughs. She flicks a fry at him.

They never notice the phones staying respectfully down.

—

Grocery Store, Aisle Four

This one spreads the fastest.

Because grocery stores feel sacred.

Louise is holding two brands of peanut butter, reading labels like it’s a contract negotiation. Lando has the basket, already full of things he did not approve.

“Why do we need three types of pasta?”

“Options,” she says, serious.

A fan down the aisle recognizes her voice first.

Turns. Freezes.

Louise looks up, mid-sentence.

“Oh—hi.”

Not posed. Not performative. Just… polite.

The fan nods like she’s just been knighted.

“Sorry—I won’t—”

“It’s okay,” Louise says. “We’re just debating peanut butter.”

Lando chimes in, “Crunchy is correct, by the way.”

The fan laughs, stunned.

She posts later, hands still shaking.

@.groceriesandgp

met them at the STORE. she was intense about labels. he was holding the basket like a boyfriend. no notes.

Internet reaction:

“Holding the basket like a boyfriend is the highest compliment.”

“Monaco grocery store employees deserve hazard pay.”

They leave with crunchy peanut butter.

—

Night, Walking Home

No phones.

No posts.

Just the quiet weight of later.

It’s late enough that the streets have softened again, the city dimmed to lamps and echoes. Louise walks on the inside of the sidewalk without thinking about it. Lando’s hand is loose in hers, fingers brushing more than gripping.

A few steps back, the same presence as always. Not intruding. Not hovering. Just there.

Louise is mid-explanation about something technical—something niche and specific and very her. Numbers. Conditions. A point she’s turning over out loud as she walks.

Lando listens like it’s poetry.

Across the street, a small group of fans clock them.

One stops short. “Is that—”

Another gently grabs her sleeve. “Don’t.”

They all slow, whispering, watching them pass without raising a phone.

Later that night, a post appears. No photo.

@.latewalksmonaco

saw them walking home. security w them but super lowkey. didn’t take a pic. felt like a moment you don’t steal.

It gets shared more than anything else.

—

The Pharmacy

One of the least glamorous places imaginable.

They’re waiting in line.

Louise disappears down an aisle while Lando stays by the counter.

She comes back carrying allergy tablets, sunscreen, lip balm and three different kinds of plasters.

He looks into the basket.

“How injured are you planning on getting?”

“I don’t know.”

“You bought enough bandages for a small village.”

“I’m being proactive.”

Someone behind them quietly recognizes them.

Later:

@.monacopharmacy

stood behind lando norris while he questioned louise’s emergency bandage budget. weirdest sentence i’ve ever typed.

Comments:

“Relationship is stored in the first aid kit.”

“She’s definitely the practical one.”

—

“Sorry for the blur I was PANICKING”

The photo is terrible.

Grainy. Zoomed too far. Taken too fast.

Lando mid-step, keys in his hand, laughing at something just out of frame. Louise half a step behind him, hair tied back messily, sunglasses on even though it’s dusk. One hand is hooked into the strap of his backpack like it’s muscle memory.

A few paces away—out of focus, barely registered—is the familiar neutral silhouette.

The caption reads:

@.monaco_was_not_ready

I KNOW THIS IS BAD QUALITY BUT THAT IS THEM. walking like… like they do this every day???

Replies pile up instantly.

“THE CASUALNESS.”

“The backpack strap hold???”

Someone zooms in, circles a detail.

Red arrow. Pixelated proof.

Louise is wearing his hoodie.

The same one he wore in an interview two months ago.

“NOT THE HOODIE REPEAT.”

“I would recognize that hoodie anywhere.”

“This is not PR. This is laundry sharing.”

—

Ten Seconds, No Context

A short video filmed from across the street.

They’re waiting at a crosswalk. Louise is talking, animated, hands moving. Lando nods, listening. The light turns green and she steps forward without looking.

He reaches out automatically, fingers hooking into the back of her jacket to pull her back just a fraction before a scooter speeds past.

She looks at him, startled.

He says something.

She smiles. Soft. Private.

The clip ends.

The internet loses its mind.

“THE REFLEX.”

“He didn’t even think.”

“Why did this make me emotional?”

Someone comments:

“This is what people mean when they say ‘safe’.”

—

Night Walk, Flash Off

No flash. No zoom.

Just silhouettes.

They’re walking side by side, hands brushing but not fully holding. Streetlights stretch their shadows long across the pavement.

Louise’s head is tilted toward him.

Lando’s shoulders are relaxed, jacket slung over one shoulder.

Caption:

@.monaconights

didn’t want to scare them with flash. hope this is okay.

It is.

This one gets shared the most.

“Thank you for being normal about it.”

“This feels intimate in a respectful way.”

—

The Rain

It starts raining unexpectedly.

Lando immediately gives her his hoodie.

She refuses.

He sighs.

Pulls the hood over her head anyway.

Now they’re both getting soaked.

Someone across the street posts:

“Neither of them brought an umbrella. Monaco’s finest.”

—

The Compilations

Within days, fan accounts start putting things together.

Montages titled “They Don’t Know They’re Being Watched”.

Slow-motion edits of ordinary moments.

Side-by-side comparisons of hoodie sightings, shoe repeats, grocery bags.

Someone posts a thread:

“Things That Make This Feel Real:”

– no posing

– no eye contact with cameras

– repeat outfits

– grocery store behavior

– arguing about snacks

Ten thousand likes.

—

Inside Their Apartment

Louise is curled on the couch, scrolling aimlessly, not looking for anything in particular.

She pauses.

Holds up her phone.

“Why is there a zoomed-in photo of my elbow online.”

Lando leans over her shoulder. “That’s a good elbow.”

She snorts. “I hate this app.”

“You were scrolling.”

“For science.”

He kisses the top of her head. “You want me to stop going out with you?”

She looks up at him like he’s said something absurd.

“No. Just—” she gestures vaguely, “—it’s weird seeing us from the outside.”

He nods. “Yeah. But they’re just… moments.”

She thinks about that.

“Okay,” she says. “Moments are fine.”

She tosses the phone aside.

Outside, someone is probably noticing something insignificant—him tying his shoes, her fixing his collar, the way they move around each other without thinking.

Inside, none of that matters.

They’re already on to the next argument.

This time, about what to watch.

—

The Handhold

It’s mid-morning, light bouncing off white stone and polished cars. Someone coming out of a bakery lifts their phone instinctively—too slow, really.

The photo catches them from behind.

Lando’s hand is linked with Louise’s, fingers interlaced, relaxed. No tension. No grip. The kind of handholding you forget you’re doing. He’s talking, head tilted, free hand sketching shapes in the air as they walk. She’s listening, nodding, half-smiling at something he’s saying.

They don’t notice the phone.

They don’t slow down.

Online, the reaction is immediate.

“That’s muscle memory.”

“They’re not even aware of their hands???”

“The way he’s matching her pace without thinking.”

“Why does this feel intrusive to look at but also comforting.”

Someone zooms in and circles their hands.

Another replies:

“Uncircle it. Let them live.”

—

The Back

This one’s a short clip, shaky, filmed from across the street.

They’re entering a restaurant—nothing flashy, one of those places you don’t notice unless you live there. The door is heavy. Louise reaches it first, pushes, and Lando’s hand lands on the small of her back automatically, guiding her through the doorway.

It’s not dramatic.

It’s not protective in a showy way.

It’s practical. Familiar.

The clip ends as the door swings closed.

Caption:

“I swear this wasn’t intentional but look at his hand.”

Comments pile up.

“That’s not for cameras. That’s for her.”

“The placement is so specific.”

“He’s not pulling her. He’s just… there.”

“If someone did that to me I’d fold immediately.”

A reply underneath, quieter:

“This is what it looks like when someone is home.”

—

The Coffee Order

They’re waiting.

The barista accidentally swaps the drinks.

Before either of them tastes them…

They both immediately exchange cups.

Neither asked.

Neither checked.

Someone nearby tweets:

“They knew whose coffee was whose by weight.”

—

The Car

Someone is stopped at a red light one lane over, phone resting casually on the steering wheel. The window is down just enough.

Inside the car, Louise is turned toward Lando, laughing at something he’s said. Her knee is angled toward him. His hand rests on her leg, thumb brushing a slow, absent-minded line.

They’re smiling at each other, not big smiles—soft ones. The kind that live between words.

The light turns green.

The clip ends.

Posted with:

“Sorry but this is insane.”

The internet reacts differently to this one.

Slower.

More careful.

“This feels… private.”

“Why am I looking away like I walked in on something.”

“The comfort level is wild.”

“This isn’t new-love giddy. This is settled.”

Someone comments:

“You can’t fake ease.”

No one argues.

—

The Kiss

It’s barely a kiss.

That’s what gets people.

They’re standing outside a store, waiting. Louise says something—whatever it is, it makes Lando lean down without thinking. A quick press of lips to hers. Half a second. Nothing exaggerated.

She doesn’t even stop talking after.

He pulls back, smiling.

They go back to waiting.

The photo is slightly crooked. The focus is off.

Caption:

“They kissed like they didn’t realize anyone could see them.”

Comments flood in.

“Not even a pause???”

“That’s a ‘we’re late for something’ kiss.”

“This is so normal it hurts.”

“I feel like I’m intruding.”

Someone adds:

“Notice how neither of them looked around after.”

—

The Pattern

People start noticing the same things.

No glances toward cameras.

No adjusting posture when phones appear.

No waving, no smiles for strangers.

Just movement. Touch. Proximity.

One post sums it up:

“They’re not performing. They’re just… living.”

And maybe that’s why Monaco keeps spotting them.

Because they don’t disappear into spectacle.

They blend into sidewalks, doorways, car seats.

Into the ordinary.

And online, for once, people don’t ask for more.

They just watch quietly.

And scroll past.

And let them walk by, hands still linked, unaware.

[lostfireflie]

Lando and Lou are so cute together, I love their story and I can't wait to read when they talk about their relationship to the world. Thanks for writing them

Just posted the podcast chapter!!

Sorry for disappearing, this past few days have been hectic, can't wait for summer break.

Thank you so much, so happy you like it 🥰

[lostfireflie]

No Title - On Record

Lando Norris x Louise Levine (Original Character)

Summary: Valentine’s Day brings the crossover nobody expected; Louise and Lando finally sit down to answer the questions everyone has been asking. Between honest conversations, there are also burner accounts, impossible close calls, Charlotte’s endless patience, and enough chaos to remind everyone that maybe the internet never really knew Louise at all.

Word Count: 11.7k

Masterlist

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Kylie: “Not gonna lie, when I got the email with this special episode proposal, my heart raced just as much as it did when I saw that announcement — you all know which one I’m talking about.”

She grins directly into camera.

“Today I’m only one of your hosts. So let’s get this podcast started.”

— the special intro music crashes in —

The screen splits. Logos animate.

Travis (already grinning like this is Christmas morning): “Welcome back, ladies and gentlemen, to an absolute once-in-a-lifetime collab between Not Gonna Lie and New Heights. I’m another one of your hosts, Travis Kelce — and Jason, what do we got coming up, brother?”

Jason leans forward like he’s about to announce the Super Bowl.

Jason: “It’s a Valentine’s Day miracle, people. We’re stoked to have this duo on this crossover, multiverse-level event.” He pauses dramatically. “That you guys are not ready for— I know I’m not.” He gestures grandly to the side. “But before introductions — a word from our special host for this special episode.”

Taylor: “Hi guys, it’s Taylor. And I’m here mainly for snooping around and some light emotional provocation.”

The room erupts.

Louise laughs off-screen before she’s even visible. “You weren't in the official invite though—”

Jason claps once sharply.

Jason: “Alright. Let me do this right.” He sits up straighter. Clears his throat like he’s about to knight someone. “She’s probably the most famous person in the world. Brilliant actress. Genius. Multiple business owner. Formula One World Champion. Olympic-level athlete in — what — two sports?”

Louise, off screen (laughing): “Jasoon—”

Jason: “—AND—” he barrels on. He gestures wildly toward the other screen. “He's… her boyfriend.” Everybody breaks.

Louise’s shoulders shake. Lando ducks his head, already laughing.

Jason: “He’s the guy who somehow — somehow — convinced her to date him.”

Lando (off screen): “I worked very hard.”

Jason: “I bet you did.” That gets another round of laughter. Jason resets, slightly more composed. “Okay, okay. For real now — he’s a two-time Formula One World Champion, three-time Constructors’ Champion with McLaren — And together they’ve won the 24 Hours of Le Mans—” His voice climbs with each accolade until Kylie physically covers her ears. “Ladies and gentlemen — start your engines — because today we’ve got Louise and Lando in the house!”

Their window pops fully on screen. Louise is laughing, but it’s the relaxed kind — shoulders loose, eyes bright. Lando is grinning openly, one hand resting on her knee like it’s muscle memory. He doesn’t even notice he’s doing it.

Travis: “Let’s gooo.”

Kylie: “Thank you both for being here.”

Taylor (soft, sincere): “We’re really happy you’re here.”

There’s a shift there — small, but real.

Lando squeezes Louise’s knee once.

—

Jason: “Okay, okay. Let’s start this thing off with New News. Because we kind of have to.”

Louise: “Oh, can we do it?” Her eyes light up in a way that makes Travis immediately nod.

Travis: “Of course you can. It’s tradition. Also — let’s see how in sync you two are. Jason, start it off.”

Jason launches into his animated, theatrical: “NEEEW NEEWSSS!” Travis follows with his booming version.

Louise and Lando exchange a look — half challenge, half silent countdown. Then together: “NEW NEEWSSS.”

Travis: slaps the table. “That was solid. Good job.”

They fist bump instinctively.

Jason: leans forward again. “Alright. We have to start with the news of you two kinda breaking the internet. Walk us through it. What/How/Why did it actually happen?”

Kylie: “Please elaborate. Because this wasn’t like… a rollout.”

Travis: “Yeah, this wasn’t just a ‘link in bio.’”

Louise: “God, no.” She laughs — then stops. Her fingers twist the ring on her hand.

It’s subtle, but Lando notices. His thumb shifts slightly where it rests on her knee. Grounding.

Lando: “It definitely wasn’t planned. We didn’t wake up one morning and think, ‘You know what? Let’s hard launch.’”

He glances over at Louise, who gives him a small nod.

Lando: “We were contacted by people threatening to release photos of us basically.” —The smiles around the call disappear.— “Some of them were just… us existing. Walking around, getting coffee, leaving restaurants.” He pauses. “But some of them crossed a line.”

Jason: “How so?”

Lando: “They were of us inside our homes.”

The silence that follows is immediate. Jason leans back. Kylie quietly shakes her head.

Travis: “…Jesus.”

Lando: “So we called our legal teams. That became the priority.” He breathes. “The legal side is still being handled by people who are much capable than we are, so there’s only so much we can say about it.”

Louise picks up naturally.

Louise: “But pretty quickly we realized…” She exhales slowly. “…whether those photos came out or not, somebody was trying to take away something from us.” —Nobody interrupts.— “They’d already decided that our relationship wasn’t ours anymore.” Her voice remains remarkably even. “They were basically saying, ‘Either you tell people, or we will.’” —Kylie nods almost imperceptibly.— “So we had to make a decision.”

Lando looks at Louise before continuing.

Lando:“We could spend however long wondering if tomorrow was the day. Or next week. Or next month. — And keep waiting for somebody else to tell our story…” He shrugs. “…or we could do it ourselves.”

Louise: Louise smiles faintly. “Not because we suddenly wanted everyone to know.” She shakes her head. “We actually still would’ve preferred that nobody did.” A few understanding smiles appear around the screen. “But if it was going to happen…” She glances toward Lando. “…we wanted it to happen on our terms.”

Lando: “So that’s where the statement came from. It wasn’t a publicity plan. It wasn’t a launch. It was us saying…” He searches for the right words. “‘You’re not going to hold this over our heads.’ Cause if people are going to hear about us…’”

Louise: “…they’re going to hear it from us.”

Taylor: “What happened after you posted?” —Both of them blink.— “Like… genuinely. The second after you hit publish.”

Lando: “We posted it…” He glances at Louise. “…looked at each other for about ten seconds…” Louise laughs. “…then put both our phones on my desk. Closed the office door.”

Louise: “And went to bed.”

The entire call stares at them.

Jason: “…You’re kidding.”

Louise: “Nope.”

Travis: “You posted the biggest thing the internet had seen, like ever…” He points at the camera. “…and then took a nap?”

Louise: “It wasn't a nap… It was already night time for us Travis, remember… time zones…”

Travis: “Yeah, that.”

Taylor laughs, covering her mouth.

Kylie: “Honestly… iconic.”

Louise: “There wasn’t really anything else we could do.” She shrugs. “We’d spent hours talking to lawyers and PR and our own teams. The statement was finished. It was posted.—There wasn’t anything we could change after that.”

Travis: “Okay…” He leans closer to the microphone. “…what about the next morning? Because that’s when it would’ve hit me. Waking up knowing everybody knows.”

Lando: nods.“We knew it was going to be loud. So…” He smiles a little. “…we made our day really quiet.”

Jason: tilts his head. ****“What does that mean?”

Louise: “We just… carried on… Slept in… Had breakfast.” She recalls swaying her head side to side. “And before we did anything in our phones… we just turned all notifications off.”

Lando: “We knew people were going to be talking about it. We just… didn’t want those opinions getting in the way of us processing what had actually happened or dictating how we navigated it ourselves.”

The call grows quiet again. Kylie nods slowly.

Kylie: “I like that.”

Louise smiles.

Taylor: “But… that’s not all that happened.” She looks between them. “Right?”

Lando: lets out a quiet laugh through his nose. “Unfortunately…” He shakes his head. “No.”

Louise: smiles wryly. “I wish.”

Lando: “That first day was actually…” He thinks for a second. “…probably the easiest one.”

That earns a few surprised looks.

Jason: “Really?”

Lando: “Yeah. We had legal teams dealing with the legal stuff. Our PR teams were handling media. So we spent most of the day talking to our families and friends.” He shrugs. “We kind of just… existed.” —Louise nods.— “It wasn’t pleasant. But it was manageable.”

Louise: “Then the next morning…” She exhales. “…someone published an article. Basically reconstructing our relationship. When they thought we’d met. When they thought we started dating. Where we’d been seen. Who we’d had dinner with.” She gives a small, incredulous laugh. “They’d gone back over more than two years.”

Taylor: shakes her head. “…That’s insane.”

Louise: “It was…” She searches for the right word. “…surreal.”

Lando: “And that changed everything.”

Jason: “How?”

Lando: “Because suddenly it wasn’t just about us anymore— It became about…” He gestures vaguely. “…everything around us.”

Louise: “The teams had to get involved. They all had legitimate questions they needed answered.— They needed to know whether there’d been conflicts. Whether anybody internally had known. Whether any regulations had been affected.”

Jason nods.

Lando: “Which makes sense. And they were as supportive to us as they could be… But I think people sometimes forget…” He pauses. “…that every meeting meant telling the same story again. Reopening every wound.” Lando looks over at her. “She’d answer it in one office. Then drive across towns. And answer it again.”

Kylie: winces sympathetically. “That sounds exhausting.”

Louise: laughs quietly. “It was.” She shifts slightly in her chair. “And while all of that was happening…” Her smile fades. “…people online started trying to rewrite my career.” —The room falls silent.— “I didn't even need to see the comments to know that they weren’t just talking about us dating anymore.—They were looking back at every contract I’d signed… Every team I’d driven for… Every opportunity I’d earned… And trying to connect all of it to my relationship.”

Travis: frowns. “Like saying it wasn’t earned?”

Louise: nods once. “Yeah. Retroactively.— As though years of work suddenly counted for less because people had new information.” She shrugs lightly, though the hurt behind the gesture is unmistakable. “I’ve never really minded people criticizing my driving. That’s sport. Sometimes you’re brilliant. Sometimes you’re awful. You live with that. But…” She pauses, choosing her words carefully. “…having people who’d never met me decide that everything I’d accomplished only happened because of someone I love…” She shakes her head. “That was harder.”

Lando’s hand squeezes hers.

Lando: “It made me angrier than anything anyone wrote about me.” He smiles without humor. “I can handle people saying I have bad qualifying sessions— They’ve got plenty of evidence.”

That earns a small laugh from around the call.

Lando: “But reading people dismiss years of her work…” He looks at Louise. “…that was the part I struggled with.”

Kylie: nods slowly. “Because they weren’t just questioning your relationship.” She looks at Louise. “They were questioning your identity.”

Louise nods.

Jason: leans forward, elbows on the table. “How do you even move forward after something like that?” He looks between them. “I mean… that’s a pretty massive blow.”

Louise takes a moment before answering.

Louise: “I struggled with it for a while.” She smiles, though it’s a tired one. “My first instinct has always been to… retreat a little. Go quiet. Process things privately until I’ve made sense of them.” She glances down at their joined hands. “But that week didn’t really let me do that. Every day I had to walk into another room and explain myself again. Tell the same story. Answer the same questions.” She exhales. “After a while you stop hearing your own voice. You’re just… repeating a script.” —The room stays quiet.— “Therapy’s helped, honestly.” She lets out a small laugh. “Which I realize is probably the least exciting answer imaginable.”

Taylor: “I actually think it’s a pretty good answer.”

Louise: smiles appreciatively. “One of the things we’ve been talking about is… going back to those memories before all of this happened.” She pauses, choosing her words. “Not the headlines. Not the comments. My memories.” She looks toward the camera. “How I felt in those moments. What it felt like the first time I raced. The first time I celebrated a podium. The first win. All those little moments that were mine first.” She taps lightly against her knee as she thinks. “Memory’s a funny thing. You don’t really remember an event exactly as it happened—you remember the last time you remembered it. Every time you revisit it, you’re kind of… rewriting it a little.”

Kylie: nods almost immediately. “That’s actually true.”

Louise: “And I realized I didn’t want thousands of strangers rewriting those memories for me.” She smiles softly. “I didn’t want to think back on some of the happiest moments of my life and have the first thing that came to mind be somebody else’s opinion of them.” She glances over at Lando. “I wanted to remember what I felt.”

A comfortable silence settles over the call.

Travis: “Damn.”

Jason: nods quietly. “That’s… really well said.”

Lando squeezes Louise’s hand once before speaking.

Lando: “I’m kind of the opposite.” —That gets a few amused smiles.— “My first instinct is usually to explode.”

Travis: points across the table. “See? That’s relatable.”

Lando: laughs. “Years in Formula One have taught me not to.” He shrugs. “People have opinions after every race. Every qualifying session. Every interview. If I’d reacted every time someone said something stupid about me, I’d probably still be arguing with someone from 2019.”

The room laughs.

Lando: “So eventually you learn to let it go.” His smile fades slightly. “But this wasn’t about me.” He looks at Louise. “It was watching people say those things about her. And then watching her have to carry it.” He shakes his head. “That was… a lot harder.”

Taylor: nods slowly. “Because you couldn’t fix it.”

Lando: “Exactly. And I wanted to.” He lets out a quiet breath. “I wanted to answer every comment. Tell everyone they had no idea what they were talking about. Defend her. Tell them everything they’d missed.” He smiles to himself. “I’m pretty sure I drove Charlotte slightly insane for a few days.”

That earns another laugh.

Louise: “Slightly?”

Lando: “Alright… very.”—“But every time I started getting worked up, I kept coming back to the same thing.” He turns toward Louise. “None of that would’ve helped her.” He shrugs simply. “The dumb people online were going to keep being dumb people online.— I couldn’t control that.” He exhales. “But I could control whether she had to go through it on her own.” —Louise’s expression softens.— “So instead of picking fights with strangers…” He smiles at her. “…I just tried to be where I was actually useful.”

Kylie: smiles warmly. “Sometimes that’s the hardest thing to learn.” She looks between them. “And sometimes it’s the most loving thing you can do.”

—

Taylor: “Where are you now?”

Louise: answers immediately, without missing a beat. “Monaco.”

A beat.

Jason blinks.

Travis starts laughing first.

Taylor: smiles softly. “I mean… not physically.”

Louise: “Ooh.” She glances at Lando. “That makes more sense.”

Lando: chuckles beside her. “I was gonna let you have that one.”

Taylor: How are you two doing now?”

Lando: “Better.” He leans back in his chair. “I think we’re just… easing back into life.” He shrugs. “It’s obviously going to be a bit of a learning curve. Getting used to the fact that people just… know.” — Louise nods beside him. — “But in a few weeks pre-season starts. She’ll be back at the factory every other day. I’ll be back training, we'll both be travelling…” He gestures vaguely. “Life’s going to get busy again.” He glances toward Louise. “So for now we’re just… enjoying the last few days where neither of us has to be anywhere.”

Jason: “So… why do this?” He gestures around the screen. “You could’ve left the statement as the statement. What made you actually want to sit down and have this conversation?”

Louise: “If it had been entirely up to me…” She glances toward Lando. “…I’d have posted a TikTok telling everyone to mind their own business.”

The entire call bursts into laughter. Taylor covers her face. Travis points excitedly.

Travis: “I’d have reposted it.”

Kylie: “I absolutely believe you would’ve.”

Louise: “But. Charlotte, unfortunately…” She sighs dramatically. “…did not believe that was a particularly effective communications strategy.”

Jason: “Smart woman.”

Lando: laughs. “She very kindly explained to us that if we wanted people to eventually let us have a bit of peace… and if we wanted journalists to stop looking for where our private life ended… we’d probably have to draw that line ourselves.”

Kylie nods.

Taylor: “Otherwise somebody else does it for you.”

Louise: nods.“There’s a difference between privacy and secrecy. Our relationship was private because it made us happy for it to be that way. It wasn’t secret because we were ashamed of it.” She smiles gently. “I think that’s a distinction that got lost.”

Taylor: nods thoughtfully. “That’s a really important difference.”

Lando: “And choosing which platform we wanted to use was a no brainer— We had to choose people who understand what it's like to suddenly become public conversation. And people who already knew us before any of this. So… it was a really small group.” He smiles across the screen.

Travis: grins. “So you are basically… tricking the internet into listening to one really long catch-up.”

Lando: “I think that’s probably the most accurate description of today.”

Jason: “I’ll take it.” claps his hands together. “And now that we’ve got all the serious stuff out of the way… I think it’s finally time for something much more important.” He leans toward the camera. “Being incredibly, unbelievably nosy.”

Laughter breaks around every screen.

Kylie: “Which brings us to today’s very special segment. Ask Some Dumb Questions. And for you that didn't catch it. We’ve combined No Dumb Questions with Ask Me Some Things.— And because this episode wasn’t announced, there’s no fan submissions.”

Travis: “Meaning…”

Kylie: “It’s literally just the four of us being curious.”

Jason: “I accept those terms.” He smiles. “Question number one.— The obvious one.” He looks at both of them. “Why hide it?”

Silence settles for a beat.

Louise: “Honestly…” She thinks about it for a second. “It wasn’t really a decision at first.” she says, “there wasn’t some grand plan.” She laughs quietly. “There wasn’t a meeting where we said, ‘Right, nobody can ever know we exist.’”

Travis: “So it wasn’t strategy.”

Louise: “No.” She shakes her head. “I actually don’t think we consciously decided anything until we actually started dating.” She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I think from the very beginning there was this… instinct.” She searches for the right words. “A feeling that whatever this was—even before it became romantic…” She glances at Lando. “…we wanted it to stay a little quieter.”

Taylor: watches her carefully. “You mean your friendship?”

Lando: “Yeah.” —That earns a chorus of amused smiles.— “I think part of it came from the fact that…” He pauses. “…neither of us are people who spend a lot of time alone.” He looks at the screen. “We’ve always got people around.” He starts counting on his fingers. “Coaches. Physios. PR. Management. Family. Friends. There’s always somebody.” —Louise nods in agreement.— ****“And not just physically. Even when you’re alone, somebody’s texting.” He laughs. “‘Where are you?’ ‘What are you doing?’ Don't forget this’ ‘Can you send that?’ It’s constant.”

The others nod with understanding.

Lando: “So when we met…” He glances toward Louise. “…the thing that surprised me wasn’t that we got on.” His smile softens. “It was that her first instinct wasn’t to go tell somebody.” he adds “We’d have dinner. And there was no Instagram story. No group chat update. No calling someone afterwards to debrief.” He laughs. “It was just… ours.” He makes a small motion with his hands. “I’ve never really had many experiences in my adult life that felt… untouched.” He chooses the word carefully. “The second people know something, everyone has an opinion. ‘Be careful.’ ‘Don’t do that.’ ‘This is a good idea.’ ‘That’s a bad idea.’” He smiles. “With us…” He shakes his head. “…there wasn’t any of that. It was just the two of us figuring it out.”

Taylor: tilts her head. “So protecting the relationship wasn’t really the first goal.”

Louise:  thinks for a moment. “No.” She shakes her head gently. “We were just protecting… the experience of getting to know each other.”

Travis: nods. “That’s actually not the answer I expected.”

Lando: “What were you expecting?”

Travis: “I don’t know.” Travis shrugs. “Something dramatic. ‘The FIA was chasing us through Monaco or something.’”

The room erupts.

Kylie: “Was it ever difficult? I mean… choosing not to share it.”

Lando: “Honestly… for me… yeah. Sometimes it felt completely contradictory.” He shakes his head with an amused smile. “I’m actually quite an… enthusiastic person.”

That gets a knowing laugh from everyone.

Travis: “You don’t say.”

Lando: “Shocking, I know.” He smiles before continuing. “When something makes me happy… my instinct is to be loud about it.” He gestures with both hands. “I want everyone to know. If my friends do something cool, I’m reposting it. If my team wins something, I’m posting about it. If somebody I’m proud of achieves something…” He shrugs. “…I want to celebrate them.” His expression softens as he turns toward Louise. “And then she came along.” He pauses. “…And she’d do something that I’d spent weeks watching her work towards.” His smile grows, remembering. “And my first thought would always be…” He mimes grabbing his phone. “‘I’m posting about this.’”

Jason: nods enthusiastically. “Normal boyfriend behavior.”

Lando: *laughs. “*And then… I'ld think about it… close Instagram.” He shrugs simply. “And I’d tell her instead.”

Travis: “Did you ever slip?.. Like had to panic delete something right away?”

Lando: “I've had a few close calls, yeah.” Lando laughs, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck.

The room erupts.

Travis: “Knew it!”

Jason: “Nobody’s that smooth.”

Lando: “I almost posted stuff I shouldn’t have…” He pauses. “…a lot.”

Taylor: “Like what?”

Lando: lets out a dramatic sigh. “So many things.” He starts counting. “Pictures from dinner. Little videos. Random photos I’d taken because I thought she looked pretty.”

Louise: “…you also got caught quite a few times.”

Taylor: “Caught doing what?”

Louise: “Liking posts.”

Lando groans immediately.

Jason: blinks. “…That’s it?”

Lando: “You're undermining the internet's talent to overanalyse the most tiny things….”

Jason: “Oh…”

Louise: “Charlotte would text me…” She pretends to read her phone. “’…Interesting activity from someone today.’”

Taylor laughs so hard she has to cover her mouth.

Lando: “It was impossible.”

Louise: ”I've told you to use a burner account— you never listened.”

Travis: “Did you have one?”

Louise smiles. Not guilty. Just… amused. It slowly turns into the kind of smug smile that immediately makes everyone suspicious.

Louise: “…we don’t need to unpack that.”

Kylie: “That wasn’t a denial.”

Taylor: “That was the least convincing non-answer I’ve ever heard.”

Travis: “SHE HAS ONE.”

Lando is laughing so hard he has to lean away from the microphone.

Jason: “For legal reasons… we’re marking the existence of Louise’s alleged burner account as… ‘no comment.’”

Louise:  beams. “Perfect.”

Kylie: “Okay…” He points between them. “Between the fan edits. People spotting you. And Lando accidentally becoming the number one liker of Louise content…” She gestures dramatically. “How did nobody figure it out?”

Lando and Louise exchange another look before they both laugh.

Lando: “Oh…” He smiles. “People figured it out.”

Louise: “There was always a corner of the internet that was absolutely convinced we were together.” She smiles fondly, almost impressed. “Like…” She thinks back. “From the very first time where we happened to be in roughly the same place.”

Taylor: laughs. “Internet detectives.”

Lando: "They came up with some interesting stories though…”

Louise: “Some were halfway right, other just completely wrong.”

Lando: "We just never engaged with it.”

Travis: “You never even acknowledged it?”

Louise: “…Well.”

Lando: “Oh no.”

Louise: She grins. “Once.”

The room immediately perks up.

Jason: “There it is.”

Taylor: “I knew there had to be one.”

Louise: laughs. “There was this one time someone took pictures of us leaving the Monaco gala dinner together.” She gestures vaguely. “And overnight it became this whole thing.” She rolls her eyes affectionately. “So… When I woke up. I took matters into my own hands and filmed a TikTok asking if people weren’t allowed to be neighbors anymore.”

Lando: “You also threw a water balloon at me.”

The room breaks into laughter.

Louise: “Minor detail.” She grins. “But yeah that became another thing… for like… a month.”

Lando: “…it also kind of proved our point.”

Kylie: tilts her head. “What do you mean?”

Lando: “If we’d tried to deny every theory… we’d have spent years doing nothing else.” Lando nods. “So instead…” He smiles. “…we let everyone have fun.”

Louise: “And occasionally,” she adds with a grin, “we had some fun of our own.”

A comfortable laugh ripples around the call before she continues.

Louise: “But we also had one agreement.”

Taylor: looks up. “What was that?”

Louise glances at Lando.

Louise: “We agreed that if anyone ever actually asked us…” She emphasizes the word with a small gesture. “‘Are you two dating?’” She shrugs. “We’d say yes.”

The room quiets.

Louise: “We weren’t interested in lying.” he says it simply, “We just weren’t interested in volunteering the information.” Louise smiles. “But…” She spreads her hands. “…nobody ever did.”

Jason: blinks. “…No one?”

Travis: “Seriously?”

Kylie: “Not one journalist?”

Louise shakes her head.

Lando: suddenly furrows his brow. “Hang on…” He looks over at her. “Didn’t Alex ask? That time during the drivers’ parade.”

Louise: “No, no.” She lifts a finger. “He asked… And I quote…” She clears her throat dramatically. “‘How long have the two of you been together?’” She smiles mischievously. “That’s a completely different question.”

The room bursts into laughter before she’s even finished.

Taylor: “Is it?”

Louise: “It absolutely is.” She nods with complete confidence. “It can be interpreted in a million different ways.” She shrugs innocently. “All perfectly true.”

Taylor is trying not to laugh.

Lando: shakes his head affectionately. “The funniest part somehow…” He points at her. “…she isn’t even trying to be clever.”

Louise: “I'm just naturally prone to technically correct answers.

Travis: “No.” He points straight at her. “You’re not prone to technically correct answers.” A grin spreads across his face. “You’re prone to chaos.”

Louise: presses a hand to her chest in mock offense. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Travis: “Oh, come on.” He gestures toward everyone else. “You answered a question with an answer that should’ve come with a legal disclaimer.”

Jason: nods vigorously. “I’ve known lawyers less slippery than that.”

Taylor: laughs. “And the scary part is she genuinely believes she’s being straightforward.”

Louise: “I am.” Louise says it with complete sincerity. “I answered exactly what he asked.”

Kylie: watches the exchange with an amused smile “I’m starting to think… the public has a very different impression of Louise than the people who actually know her.”

Lando: ”Oh, she's an absolute menace.”

Travis: “This is the version of Louise don’t get to see.” He circles a finger toward Louise. “The witty one. The smartie-pants. The one who’s got a comeback loaded before you’ve even finished the question. He counts them off on his fingers. “The sassy, sarcastic Louise. The one that’s always one sentence away from causing problems.” He laughs. “I feel like she’s been slowly coming out over the last hour.”

Jason: nods enthusiastically. “I was about to say the same thing. She’s been holding out on everybody.”

Kylie: “We started this podcast talking about legal teams and therapy, and now she’s arguing that question grammar is legally binding.”

Taylor: “She somehow has this reputation of being… really composed.” She searches for the word. “And then people meet the actual Louise.” She turns back toward the camera. “And she’s funny. She’ll commit to a joke for months. She argues with questions. She creates technical loopholes where none exist. She’ll say something completely outrageous with a perfectly straight face and then act confused when everyone laughs.”

Louise: “I don’t see the issue.”

Kylie: “You wouldn’t.”

Louise: “I think everyone else is just a little unimaginative.”

That earns another burst of laughter.

Louise: “Okay…” She waits for it to settle before lifting both hands in surrender. "In my defense.”

Jason: “Here we go.”

Louise: “No, hear me out.” She leans forward, suddenly looking very earnest. “For the past couple of weeks I have been on my absolute best behavior.” She looks at the screen. “I have sat through…” She starts counting on her fingers. “Meetings with lawyers, communications teams, HR departments, sponsors, governing bodies.” She throws both hands up. “And every single meeting…” She straightens in her chair. “I answered the same questions… over and over again.”

Taylor: “I’d lose my mind.”

Louise: “I think I did a little." She lets out an exaggerated sigh. “But through all of that…” She places a hand over her heart. “I did not joke.” She pauses dramatically. “Once. Not one sarcastic comment.” She shakes her head. “Not even a little mock scoff.” She looks genuinely proud of herself. “For me…” She nods once. “…that is enormous.”

Jason starts clapping.

Travis: “Oh my God.”

More laughter.

Kylie: “So this is your emotional decompression?”

Louise: “Yes. I’ve been professionally appropriate for fourteen consecutive days.” She smiles brightly. “I’ve earned this.”

Lando: turns toward her with a grin. “What do you think Charlotte’s going to say when she watches this?”

Louise: “Oh… I think it’s safe to say she’s already aware.”

Taylor: raises an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

Louise: “Well…” Louise tries very hard not to smile. “She called me earlier… And asked me to behave.”

Kylie:“…What did you answer?”

Louise: bites the inside of her cheek, visibly trying not to smile. “I didn’t.” Silence. “I just… hung up.”

There is a beat. Then the room explodes.

Jason doubles over laughing.

Travis: points at the screen. “YOU HUNG UP ON CHARLOTTE?!”

Louise: shakes her head. “No, it’s okay.”

Kylie: smiles. “How?”

Louise: “I sent her a voucher for her favourite spa. Texted her to Take the rest of the day off*.* And…” She smiles sweetly. “…I added a little blowing-kiss emoji.” She punctuates the sentence with an exaggerated kiss toward the camera. “Mwah.”

The room dissolves into laughter all over again.

Jason: “This woman deserves combat pay.”

Travis: “Charlotte needs a raise.”

Louise: “Excuse me?” She points at Travis. “I literally just gave her a day off.” The room laughs. “I sent her to a luxury spa.” She throws her hands up. “What more could she possibly want?”

Taylor: trying not to laugh. “…A quieter client?”

That earns the biggest laugh yet.

Louise: gasps dramatically. “I am a delight.”

Lando: doesn’t even hesitate. “No.”

Everyone bursts out laughing again.

Louise: immediately points an accusing finger at him. “You are not allowed to comment on Charlotte’s stress levels.” She folds her arms. “You drive her just as insane as I do. The difference is…” Louise smiles smugly. “…I’m the one who pays her.”

Jason: slaps the table. “Oh, that’s incredible.”

Travis: “She’s got a point.”

Lando: blinks innocently. “What have I done?”

Louise: stares at him for a long second. “How about that time you were in Ibiza?”

The second she says Ibiza, Lando groans. “Oh no.”

Louise: “Oh yes.” She turns to the others. “He was in a club and somehow decided that wearing a shirt that said ‘Eat Pussy, It’s Vegan’ was a brilliant idea.”

Jason immediately folds over laughing. Travis slaps the table. Taylor covers her face.

Louise: “And then I wake up the next morning to Charlotte trying to give me a lecture about public exposure and brand image.” She throws both hands up. “As if I wore the shirt!”

Lando: laughing too hard to defend himself. “You would’ve.”

Louise: “One, that’s not the point. Two, I would’ve had enough common sense not to wear it in public because I understand the consequences. And three, I told you I could make a much better version.”

Jason: wipes at his eyes. “You had an upgraded version?”

Louise: “Oh, absolutely.”

Jason: “What happened?”

Louise: “Charlotte vetoed it.”

Taylor: laughs. “Before or after hearing it?”

Louise: “After.” Louise sighs dramatically. “She looked at me and went”—her voice slips into an almost perfect Charlotte impression—“‘Louise, your name is not going to be associated with that kind of language.’” She waves a dismissive hand. “Yada yada yada.”

Lando is shaking his head.

Travis: “Alright. I gotta know. What did yours say?”

Louise: immediately looks around suspiciously. “Can you bleep it?”

Jason: nods. “Absolutely.”

Kylie: joins in. “We’ll censor it.”

Louise: “You promise?”

Taylor: “Scout’s honor.”

Louise: narrows her eyes. “I don’t believe any of you.”

Travis: “We’re serious.”

Louise: “…Fine.” She lowers her voice like she’s sharing state secrets. “It would’ve said… **** * **** **** * ******.”

There’s complete silence.

Then Jason completely loses it. Travis throws his head back laughing. Taylor has tears running down her face. Even Kylie can’t stop laughing. Lando just watches the reactions with the resigned expression of someone who’s lived through this before.

Lando: “You see?” He gestures toward Louise. “I get the party boy reputation.” He points at himself. “I’m the chaotic one. And then there’s her.” He points at Louise. “Who somehow walks around with the reputation of being this…” He searches for the right word. “…sweet, innocent, well-behaved, goodie two-shoes.”

Louise: “It’s not my fault.” She shrugs. “I’ve never claimed I was.” She makes little quotation marks with her fingers. “A ‘goodie two-shoes.’” She smiles innocently.

Travis: laughs. “You’ve also never corrected anyone.”

Louise: “I wasn’t asked.” She says it so matter-of-factly that everyone bursts out laughing again.

Lando drops his head into one hand.

Taylor: wipes at the corner of her eye. “I genuinely can’t tell when you’re joking.”

Lando: “Neither can I anymore,”

Louise: smiles. “The truth is…” She sits back a little. “I’m just…” She pauses dramatically. “…careful.”

Kylie: narrows her eyes suspiciously. “Careful?”

Louise: nods. “I mean… was I dancing on top of a table at four in the morning at Taylor and Travis’ wedding?” A beat. She nods to herself. “Yes. But…” Louise lifts a finger. “Can anybody prove it?” She slowly looks around the call. “Any pictures? Video evidence?” Louise spreads her hands. “No.”

Jason starts laughing.

Louise: keeps going “Does everyone think Sabrina came up with every ridiculous thing we’ve ever done together?”

Travis: nods immediately. “That's the general consensus.”

Louise: smiles smugly. “Absolutely not.”

Kylie: raises an eyebrow. “You’re telling me Sabrina isn’t the instigator?”

Louise: “Oh, she’s the instigator.” Louise waves her hand. “But not the mastermind.” She shrugs. “I just let her collect the reputation.”

Taylor: laughs. “Why?”

Louise: answers without missing a beat. “Because if something goes wrong… She gets the blame not me.”

The room erupts. Jason nearly falls out of his chair. Taylor wipes tears from her eyes.

Taylor: “I have to tell her you admitted this.”

Louise: “She already knows. she grins. “It’s part of our ecosystem.”

Kylie laughs. “So your strategy is just… let Sabrina be the chaotic one publicly? …And you hide behind her?”

Louise: “I prefer to think of it as… strategic positioning.” Louise thinks for a second, then says with complete sincerity, “If I’m going to be dumb enough to do something stupid…” She pauses dramatically. “…I have to be smart enough not to get caught.”

The room goes quiet for a split second. Then everyone breaks.

Jason: points toward the camera. “That’s the quote.”

Louise: “That’s practically my life motto.”

Lando: sighs with exaggerated resignation. “And that, ladies and gentlemen…” He gestures toward Louise. “…is why Charlotte deserves every bonus she’s ever received.”

Taylor: still laughing. “Okay, but here’s what I want to know.” She points between the two of them. “I know what you’re like at parties.” She points at Lando. “And I know what you’re like at parties.” She points at Louise. “But I have absolutely no frame of reference for what you’re like together.”

The table hums in agreement.

Jason: “We know Lando's bar.”

Kylie: “We’ve seen Louise out.”

Travis: “Yeah. What’s that combination like?”

Lando looks at Louise. Louise looks back at Lando. A beat. Then they both shrug.

Louise: “We don’t know.”

Everyone pauses.

Travis: “…What do you mean you don’t know?”

Lando: “We’ve never done it.”

Jason: “No chance.”

Louise: “Seriously. Whenever we ended up at the same event or the same party, we…” She makes a stiff, awkward gesture. “…behaved.”

Lando: “We'd be painfully normal.”

She straightens in her chair, suddenly adopting the posture of someone attending a business conference.

Louise: “‘Hello, Lando.’” She gives him the smallest, politest nod imaginable.

Lando: “‘Hello, Louise.’” Lando immediately slips into the bit. “‘Lovely event.’”

Louise: “‘Yes. Wonderful canapés.’”

Lando: “‘We have now spoken for precisely four minutes.’”

Louise: “‘Time to separate before people become suspicious.’”

The call dissolves into laughter.

Taylor: “Stop.”

Jason: “That’s actually what you did?”

Louise: “Essentially.”

Lando: “Although…” He looks over at her. “…we don’t have to do that anymore.”

Louise: looks back at him. “Are we going to Ibiza?”

Lando: “We can.” He shrugs. “We’ve got summer break.”

Silence. Then absolute chaos.

Taylor: “Oh, that’s dangerous.”

Travis: “Oh, this is going to be spectacular.”

Jason: “Someone warn Charlotte.”

Kylie: “No, someone warn Ibiza.”

Lando is already laughing. Louise hasn’t spoken. She’s simply staring into space with the unmistakable expression of someone whose brain has started connecting entirely too many dots. Taylor notices first.

Taylor: “…Why are you making that face?”

Everyone turns toward Louise. She blinks once. Twice. Then gives the tiniest, most guilty little nod.

Louise: “…Yeah.” Another tiny nod. “…I might have to give Charlotte that raise.”

Jason: “She’s already budgeting for the PR crisis.”

Travis: “Charlotte’s phone just started ringing and she doesn’t even know why.”

Taylor: “Somewhere, she’s suddenly feeling anxious.”

Louise: “It’s not that I’m planning anything.” She smiles with perfect innocence. “…I’m just acknowledging the statistical likelihood.”

The call explodes again.

—

Kylie: leans forward. “Did that happen a lot?” She points between them. “You two just… accidentally ending up at the same places?”

Lando: “Constantly.”

Louise: “More often than it had any business happening.”

Taylor: “Really?”

Louise: nods. “Fashion events. Sponsor dinners. Charity galas. Award shows. Launch parties. Formula One events.”

Travis: “That sounds stressful.”

Louise: “It was… Interesting” Louise admits with a laugh. “The official events were easy.”

Kylie: “How?”

Lando: “Because everyone already knew why we were there.” he gestures vaguely. “So nobody questioned us existing in the same room.”

Louise: “It was the private parties that were the problem,” she laughs. “Those were dangerous.”

Taylor: leans closer to the camera. “You seriously never got caught?”

Lando looks at Louise. Louise looks back at him. Then they both smile.

Louise: “Honestly… I think the universe liked us.”

Lando: “It genuinely did.” nods immediately. “There were so many close calls.”

Jason: “Give me one.”

Lando: “Oh… Kay. We were both at this private event in London.” He looks at Louise. “We’d barely spoken all night.” —“As per protocol,” Louise says.— “As per protocol,” Lando shakes his head. “So I had to leave first.” He spreads his hands. “But when I walk out the front door…” His eyes widen. “…there’s a wall of paparazzi.”

Taylor: gasps. “No.”

Lando: “I’m talking…” He laughs at the memory. “A proper wall. Cameras everywhere.”

Louise: “So what does he do?” Louise asks rhetorically. “He runs. Into the middle of the street. Laughing.”

Everyone starts laughing.

Lando: “I just sprinted to the car because there was no point pretending I wasn’t trying to escape.”

Louise: “Then he texts me,” She says in an overly dramatic voice. “‘This is it.’ ‘Brace for impact.’” Louise continues, “I thought, ‘Well… this is how we get caught.’" She exhales. “So I stayed inside.”

Travis: “For how long?”

Louise: “Maybe…” Louise thinks. “Ten-fifteen minutes? Something like that.”

Taylor: “And then?”

Louise: “I walked outside…” She pauses. “…and there wasn’t a single photographer.”

Jason: “No.”

Louise: “Not one. All gone. Vanished.” She spreads her hands. “I just walked to the car.” She looks genuinely bewildered. “I called him—And I was like… Did you lie to me?— She laughs “‘Where did they go?’”

Kylie: “That’s insane.”

Lando: “It happened all the time,” He says. “Something would happen where we’d both think, well, this is definitely the end of the secret… and somehow… we’d get away with it.”

The laughter slowly dies down.

Taylor: shakes her head. “I still can’t believe you managed that for years.”

Lando: “Honestly…” He glances at Louise. “That’s why we were so surprised when everything finally came out.” —Louise nods in agreement.— “Because if anything…” he laughs softly. “…the last few months before it happened were probably the least careful we’d ever been.”

A few eyebrows lift around the call.

Travis: “Really?”

Lando: “Yeah.” He leans back. “We’d kind of reached this point where we weren’t being reckless… but we also weren’t treating every interaction like it was a military operation anymore.”

Louise: nods. “We’d go out for dinner more often. We spent New Year’s together. We’d end up at the same places more often.” Louise shrugs. “If someone saw us talking…” She smiles. “…we weren’t immediately pretending it was a coincidence.”

Kylie: “Okay, follow up.” She leans toward the camera. “After everything became public…” She smiles. “…did people start coming up to you saying, ‘I knew it’?”

Lando and Louise exchange another look. Then both shake their heads.

Lando: “Not really.”

Louise: “There were surprisingly few.”

Taylor: “Really?”

Louise: “I think most people were just…” searches for the word. “…shocked.”

Lando: nods “The people who were closest probably had suspicions.”

Louise: “Yeah,” she agrees. “From the paddock…” She thinks for a second. “I’d say Oscar and Max were probably the closest.”

Jason: “Because they actually knew?”

Lando: “Not knew like for certain.” He shakes his head. “They were just around us every single week.”

Taylor: nods thoughtfully. “That makes sense.”

Louise: suddenly laughs to herself. “Although…” She smiles. “The one person I’m genuinely shocked didn’t figure it out…” She looks at Lando. “…was Carlos.” —Lando immediately starts laughing.— “He were my biggest concern.”

Everyone laughs.

Travis: “Why Carlos?”

Louise: “He knows Charlotte. He’s known Lando forever. He knows Lando’s family. He was around constantly.” She throws her hands up. “I was convinced he was going to put the pieces together. Especially…” Louise points across at him. “…after he figured out Lando was dating someone.”

Taylor: eyebrows shoot up. “He knew that?”

Lando: “Yeah.” He nods. “I wasn’t really hiding the fact that I was in a relationship anymore. “Just… who it was.”

Louise laughs.

Jason: still laughing. “We genuinely need to have Carlos on the show now.”

Lando: “You should.”

Louise: “Just don’t ask him to solve mysteries.”

Another round of laughter rolls through the call.

Kylie waits until it settles before leaning toward her microphone.

Kylie: “Okay… this has actually made me curious.” She looks between them. “Who did know before everyone else?”

A small silence follows. Lando and Louise exchange another one of those wordless conversations that everyone on the call has started recognizing.

Louise: “Very, very few people.”

Lando: “Honestly… less than people probably imagine.”

Jason: “Like… count-on-your-fingers few?”

Lando: “Yeah.”

He lifts one hand.

“Pretty much.”

Taylor: “So who was first?”

Both of them answer simultaneously.

Louise & Lando: “Charlotte.”

The room laughs.

Travis: “Of course.”

Louise: “Our calendars were becoming… impossible.” She looks at Lando. “We’d spend forty-five minutes trying to figure out when we could see each other for a few hours.” —Lando nods.— “So we realized… we actually needed another human being involved.”

Lando: “Charlotte basically became our…” He thinks. “…relationship logistics coordinator.”

Louise: “Which was nowhere in her job description. But she excelled anyway.”

Everyone laughs.

Kylie: “So Charlotte knew first.”

Both nod.

Lando: “Then… around the same time…” He glances toward Louise. “…we told our parents.”

Louise: immediately tilts her head. “…Well.” She smiles. “If we’re being completely honest… they already knew.”

Lando laughs through his nose.

Jason: “Parents know everything.”

Travis: “No they don’t.”

Louise: “In our case, they did.” She folds one leg beneath herself. “They just politely waited for us to tell them in our own time.”

Lando: “I wouldn’t even be surprised if they had a group chat.”

Louise: snorts. “They do. I've seen it”

She says it so casually everyone starts laughing.

Jason: “…They do?”

Travis: “You’ve seen it?!”

Taylor: “You snooped on your parents phone?”

Louise: “Nooo.” A beat. “My dad handed me his phone because he was driving and needed to sent a text…” She waves vaguely. “My fingers…” She demonstrates an innocent little swipe. “…just accidentally slipped into the search bar.”

Taylor: immediately starts laughing. “Louise.”

Jason: is crying with laughter. “What did you find?”

Louise: grins. “Plenty of evidence.” She points at Lando. “…remember Thailand?” —Lando immediately starts laughing.—

Taylor: perks up. “What happened in Thailand?”

Louise: “So…” She folds her hands. “… during one summer break we both happened to be in holidays with our families at the same exact island in Thailand.” She makes exaggerated quotation marks. “…by coincidence…” Louise smiles. “Coincidence just happened to have two names.” She counts on her fingers. “Our parents.”

Everyone laughs.

Kylie: wipes tears from her eyes. “Was Charlotte in on it with them?”

*Louise: “Oh yeah, definitely. It just took longer for me to find proof she did.” A mischievous smile appears.

Lando: turns slowly toward her. “…What did you do?”

Taylor: immediately sits forward. “Oh no.”

Louise: bites the inside of her cheek. “So…” She raises one finger. “This one…” She nods solemnly. “…I'll admit, I was snooping.”

The room explodes.

Jason: “There it is!”

Travis:“At least she admitted it this time.”

Louise: nods proudly. “So I was using Charlotte’s phone…” She shrugs. “…and I saw her chat with my dad.”

Kylie: leans closer. “What were they talking about?”

Louise: starts laughing before she can answer. “My dad was asking for updates cause I was supposed to be ‘alone in Monaco’…”

Lando is already hiding his face.

Kylie: “What did Charlotte answer?”

Louise: “She just wrote…” she laughs so hard she can barely get the words out. “‘She’s fine. Lando’s with her.’”

Silence.

Then absolute chaos.

Jason slaps the table so hard his microphone jumps. Travis is doubled over. Taylor has tears streaming down her face. Kylie can barely breathe.

Lando: “…I cannot believe you read that.”

Louise: “I cannot believe she sent that,”

Taylor: “You weren’t supposed to see it!”

Louise: “I wasn’t supposed to be discussed in a secret parents-and-manager alliance either, but I was!”

Jason finally manages to speak through his laughter.

Jason: “Okay…” He points between them. “So Charlotte knew. The parents knew.” He starts counting on his fingers. “Who else?”

Lando: smiles. “My siblings.”

Travis: “How’d you tell them?”

Lando: lets out a long sigh. “I didn’t— I was going to.” He raises both hands. “I genuinely had a whole plan.” —Louise nods. “He did.”— Lando shakes his head. “And then…” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “…my nieces betrayed me.”

Travis: is already grinning. “Oh no.”

Lando: “It was family dinner.” He looks completely resigned. “We’re all eating. Everything’s normal. I’d left my phone on the table for a second.” —Louise smiles innocently beside him.— “And my oldest niece picks it up.” He sighs dramatically. “Before I can even say anything she goes… ’Uncle Lando… why you have hearts next to her name?’”

The room erupts immediately.

Taylor: hides behind her hands. “No…”

Lando: “My sisters look up.” He slowly turns his head. “’…Whose name?’” Another pause. “And before I can rescue the situation… the youngest goes— ‘Loooouise!’”

Jason: slaps the table. “No way.”

Travis: “They sold you out.”

Lando: “They sold me out for absolutely nothing.” Lando laughs.

Kylie: “How about your friends?”

Louise: “Honestly… it hasn't been that long since we told them.”

Lando: “And we started with the ones closer to us, that had already come across us together.” Lando says. “So it was very unceremoniously.”

Taylor: has been smiling quietly through all of it. Eventually she crosses her arms. “I have a complaint.”

Louise: “I knew this was coming.”

Taylor: “I’m actually still a little upset you didn’t tell me.”

Louise: groans dramatically. “I wanted to!”

Taylor: “You didn’t.”

Louise: immediately points toward Travis. “It was his fault.”

Travis: “…Mine?” Travis blinks. “What did I do?”

Louise:“We’d already been talking about telling Taylor.” Lando nods. “It felt silly not to by that point.” Louise looks at Lando. “But then…” Lando smiles. “…one afternoon… Travis calls Lando to a chiefs game… then… immediately calls me and invites me to a chiefs game.” Louise laughs. "The second I hanged up. We just looked at each other…” She mimes the moment. “…and went… ‘We can’t tell them now.’”

Jason: immediately loses it. “No.”

Lando: “Oh yes.” Lando nods solemnly. “We’d already accidentally become part of the plan.”

Taylor: “You let us keep go on with it.”

Louise: “We couldn’t waste the opportunity.” Louise says it with complete sincerity. “It was objectively too funny.”

Travis: throws both hands into the air. “So the entire time…” He points between them. “…you were already dating?”

Lando: “Very much so.” Lando nods.

Kylie: “I cannot believe this.”

Taylor: “I spent half the game thinking…” She points between them.“…‘They’re actually getting on really well.’”

Lando: smiles. “It was honestly one of the funniest afternoons we’ve ever had.”

Travis shakes his head.

Louise: nods solemnly. “At least it gave us something to laugh about behind his back.”

Travis: clutches his chest. “You little pricks. And here I was about to lay out a speech.”

Louise: giggles, unable to hide it. “Don’t get sentimental now, Trav.”

Jason: piles on. “Yeah, Travis, you have an image to uphold.”

Travis: “Oh for God’s sake,” Travis mutters. “You two, go…”

The video cut.

—

The laughter lingers for a few seconds before Louise raises one hand.

Louise: “…Can I ask a question?”

Jason: immediately points at her. “Absolutely.”

Louise: looks around the screen. “…How much longer is this going to take?” —Everyone pauses.— She continues completely seriously. “Because I need a snack.”

Jason: doesn’t even look surprised. Hands folded. Full dad mode activated. “You can get a snack.”

Louise: “Thank you.” She’s already halfway out of her headphones before anyone can respond. One earcup slides off. Then the other. Her chair scrapes softly as she disappears out of frame.

Taylor: “That was fast.”

Kylie: “She asked, but spiritually? She had already decided.”

Travis: “That was a courtesy question.”

Lando watches her leave with fond amusement, leaning back in his chair.

Travis: “Alright. While she’s gone… Lando. Rapid fire. No thinking. What is she getting?”

Lando: freezes “Oh—uh—oh God.” He presses his lips together, actually thinking. His eyes flick upward like the answer might be written on the ceiling. “Okay, um… I think— She’s been obsessed with these little banana bite things recently. With peanut butter. And chocolate. Like—frozen? Or maybe not frozen. Just chilled. I don’t know. But that vibe.”

Taylor: “That was very specific.”

Kylie: “Yeah, that wasn’t a guess. That was knowledge.”

Jason: “That was said with fear and accuracy.”

Travis: “Locked in. Final answer.”

Off-screen, a cupboard closes. Footsteps. Louise reappears with a bowl in hand, already chewing like she didn’t want to waste a single second. She drops back into her chair and slides her headphones on—slightly crooked.

Jason: “Alright. What’d you get?”

Louise: tilts the bowl toward the camera proudly. “Banana bites. With peanut butter and chocolate.”

The call explodes.

Travis: “NO WAY.”

Taylor: “Oh my God.”

Kylie: “That’s insane.”

Jason: “Point for Lando. Big point.”

Lando: laughing—half embarrassed, half victorious. “Yes. Let’s go.”

Louise: blinks, confused. “Wait—what?” She looks from face to face on the screen. “What did I miss?”

Travis: “We just proved he knows you better than you know yourself.”

Taylor: “You left for sixty seconds and your personality was correctly guessed.”

Kylie: “That’s either romantic or deeply concerning.”

Louise: looks down at her bowl. Then back at Lando. “I mean…” She shrugs. “They’re good.”

Lando smiling softly: “They are really good.” He reaches over and steals one.

Jason: “Alright. Snack acquired. Psychic boyfriend confirmed. Can we proceed?”

Louise: scoots closer to the mic, bowl balanced on her knee now that peace has been restored. “Okay, yeah. I’m good now.” She pops another banana bite into her mouth. “You can continue interrogating us.”

Travis: “Actually… We’re done with the interrogation.”

Kylie: “We figured… since we don’t have listener questions this week… we’d replace them. So welcome to a modified combination of Doomscroll and Comment of the Week.”

Taylor: “Each of us picked our favorite internet assumptions, conspiracy theories, investigations and absolutely unhinged conclusions people reached after your announcement.”

Kylie: “And now…” She points dramatically at Lando and Louise. “…you get to react to them.”

Lando: “That’s concerning.”

Taylor: “No.” She smiles. “It’s entertaining.”

Kylie clears her throat theatrically.

‘I just know they’re one of those sickeningly sweet couples, basically a real-life fairy tale. They’re disgustingly romantic. They probably spend every evening staring into each other’s eyes while candles burn in the background.’”

Both immediately shake their heads. Louise physically shivers. Lando notices immediately and starts laughing before she even opens her mouth.

Louise: “That made my skin crawl.”

Travis: “You hated every word of that.”

Louise: “Every single one.” She rubs her arms.

Taylor: “Okay… If you’re not the fairy tale couple… What's a fictional couple that describe you?”

Lando: thinks. “Hm… I think… prob ably Sally and Lightning McQueen. That vibe.”

Travis: nods. “I actually see that.”

Louise: without even looking up from her snack—“Trixie and Katya.”

Everybody completely loses it.

Lando: turns toward her. “…Really?”

Louise: finally looks up. “We’ve spent the last hour discussing burner accounts… me hanging up on Charlotte… you wearing that Ibiza shirt… our parents secretly coordinating our love life… and me admitting Sabrina’s been taking the blame for years.” She looks genuinely confused. “And you’re still saying Cars?”

Jason: bent over laughing. “She’s got evidence.”

Taylor: still laughing. “…Trixie and Katya aren’t even a couple.”

Louise: “Yet… Their bond will outlast half the endgame couples people keep posting fan edits about.”

Travis: “Okay. I know enough about them to ask this.” He points. “Who’s Trixie… and who’s Katya?”

Lando: answers immediately. “She’s Katya.”

Louise: gasps “…Excuse me? You're Katya.”

The room is in tears.

While everyone is laughing… Louise quietly reaches toward the keyboard. Clicks. Types something. Another click.

Taylor: notices. “…What are you doing?”

Louise: smiles with unmistakable mischief. “…Nothing.”

Lando: starts laughing. “She’s opened one of those BuzzFeed quizzes, literally called ‘Are You Trixie or Katya?’”

Louise: “To take it later.” She shrugs as if that’s the most reasonable thing in the world. “And that's something only Trixie would do.”

—

Taylor reads the next one.

“Louise definitely runs their life. She always knows where they’re supposed to be, what time they’re leaving, their schedules, passports, flights… Meanwhile Lando just kind of… follows her around carrying things.”

Lando: bursts out laughing before she even finishes. “Absolutely not.”

Louise: “That’s genuinely the biggest misconception.” She points emphatically at him. “But he’s frighteningly organized.”

Travis: points toward Lando. “You don’t exactly look organized.”

Lando: “I know.”

Louise: “Looks can be deceiving.” She gestures dramatically. “He’ll show up looking like complete chaos.” She starts miming him. “Having seventeen different things hanging off him… and yet… he knows exactly where every single one is.”

Taylor: “And you?”

Louise: “I’m organized…” She pauses. “…conceptually.”

Silence.

Jason: “…Conceptually?”

Louise: “Everything exists.” She gestures vaguely. “I just don’t always know… where.”

The room erupts.

—

Travis calls the following.

“They definitely started dating almost immediately after meeting.”

Louise: immediately laughs. “Oh…” She shakes her head. “No.”

Lando: “Definitely not.”

Louise: “I stretched that process out for as long as I possibly could.”

Taylor: “Really?”

Louise: “Oh yeah.” She nods. “He had to pass…” She searches for the word. “…many tests.”

Lando: laughs. “So many.”

Jason: “Tests?”

Louise: “Tiny ones.” She starts counting. “I asked him what his favourite dinosaur was, Mario Kart character. Which apocalypse he’d choose to survive.”

Lando: “She genuinely asked follow-up questions.”

Louise: “Of course I did.” She looks offended. “What if he’d picked zombies with no escape plan?”

Taylor: “What else?”

Louise: “Favourite Disney princess.”

Travis: “…Princess?”

Louise: “He has younger sisters.” She shrugs. “If he couldn’t answer…” She looks straight into camera. “…that would’ve been a red flag on its own.”

The room explodes.

Lando: “I passed.”

Louise: “He did.” She nods approvingly.

Jason: “What was the correct answer?”

Both of them answer at the same time. Lando & Louise: “Mulan.”

Taylor: claps. “That was adorable.”

Kylie: “Okay…” She leans forward. “What was the final one?”

Louise: doesn’t answer immediately. Instead… She smiles. “Akira.” —Lando immediately softens.—

Jason: “Your dog?”

Louise: nods. “Akira can be…” She thinks. “…very protective. She growls at anyone who gets too close. My dad? Tried to bite him. Multiple times. Charlotte touching my hair? Death stare. Bodyguards? She nudges them out of the way.”

Travis: raises one hand. “She nearly bit me once.”

Louise: immediately points at him. “Because you picked me up and started tossing me around like a decorative pillow.”

The room erupts.

Jason: “So what happened with Lando?”

Louise: smiles. “The first time he came to my house in LA…” She laughs quietly. “I was giving him the grand tour… and Akira was loose in the backyard.”

—Travis immediately winces. “Oh no.”—

Louise: “So… I just see this enormous black blur tearing across the garden straight towards us.” She shakes her head. “I immediately panicked because he had absolutely no idea what she was like.”

Lando: “None.”

Louise: “Meanwhile…” She points at him. “He’s standing there smiling because he thinks the dog is excited to see him.”

The room erupts.

Lando: “I was like, ‘Aw, she likes me.’”

Louise: “And I’m trying to subtly step in front of him without making it obvious.” She demonstrates awkwardly shuffling sideways. “And then…” Her expression softens. “…about a metre away… Akira just… slowed down… walked the last couple of steps. Stopped right in front of him. And… sniffed his hand.” She shrugs. “…and just carried on walking like nothing had happened.”

Taylor: “That was it?”

Louise: “That was it.” She laughs in disbelief. “No growling. No getting between us. She even let him pet her.”

She looks at Lando, still sounding slightly offended years later.

Louise: “I was genuinely shocked.”

Lando: “Best first impression I’ve ever made.”

Louise: “Honestly…” She smiles softly. “When Akira decided he was okay… I think I did too.”

Jason: immediately claps once. “Forget the championships.” He points at Lando. “This man got approved by Akira.”

Travis: “Honestly… I’d put that on the résumé.”

—

Jason announces another one.

“These two definitely spend hours arguing over who gets to drive.”

Both answer instantly.

Louise & Lando: “No.”

Travis: “No?”

Louise: “Absolutely not. I only, like… enjoy driving, on the track. Proper race cars. That’s my thing …On the road?” She points at herself. “I’m 100% a passenger princess.”

The room laughs.

Lando: “She genuinely doesn’t care about it.”

**Louise: “**Also—just so we’re clear—I drive well… I can park better than the entire grid. Him included.”

**Lando: “**I’m not that bad…”

Louise: “You’re fine.” She pauses. Then, deadpan: “Next to Charles, you’re exceptional.”

The room detonates.

**Jason: “**NO WAY.”

Taylor: “You didn’t have to do that.”

Kylie: “This is slander.”

**Louise: “**No cause— If you’re ever out in Monaco and you see a Ferrari parked over the line?” She doesn’t blink. “It’s Charles’.”

Lando: tries to object — fails. “That’s not—” he laughs “—that’s not entirely untrue.”

Travis: “I love that this turned into parking beef.”

—

The screen hiccups for a second—someone switching camera angles, Jason muttering, “We’re back, right?” while looking somewhere off-screen. One of the microphones crackles briefly before settling. For a few seconds, nobody fills the silence. Travis gives a thumbs up while putting down his drink. Taylor scrolls through something on her phone.

Across the screen, Lando takes another sip of water. And Louise… has completely disappeared into her own world. She’s staring out the window beside them, watching rain stream down the glass in thick, uneven trails. Beyond it, the Monaco skyline is little more than a blur of grey and sea. She follows one droplet all the way down the pane with surprising concentration.

The silence stretches just long enough for Taylor to notice.

Taylor: smiles. “…Lou?”

Nothing.

Lando glances over, follows her line of sight to the window, and immediately understands. With a knowing smile, he gently nudges her shoulder.

Louise: blinks, turning back toward the screen. “…Sorry.” She gestures vaguely toward the rain outside. “I got distracted.”

The room laughs.

Jason: “By…?”

Louise: “Water.” A beat. “It hasn’t stopped falling out of the sky for…” She looks to Lando. “…eighteen hours?”

Lando: “About that.” He shakes his head, looking out the window himself. “It’s actually crazy. I’ve never seen it like this here.”

Travis: “You sound personally offended.”

Louise: “I am personally offended.” She points dramatically toward the rain. “If it doesn’t stop soon… I’m going to Nice.”

Kylie: “Nice as in… France?”

Louise: “For us it’s more like— “Nice thirty minutes from the front door of this apartment… to the hotel room door.”

Jason: laughs. “I love that you measured it door-to-door.”

Louise: “I have.” She nods matter-of-factly. “It’s important information.”

Travis: “Hold on.” He lifts a finger. “If Monaco’s raining… wouldn’t Nice be raining too?”

Lando: nods. “He has a point.”

Louise: freezes. Then— “Where’s my iPad?” She disappears out of frame for two seconds. Rustling. She pops back up already unlocking it.

Lando: laughs through his nose. “You are not checking.”

Louise: ignores him completely. “Okay, so—” Louise tilts the iPad toward the camera.

Taylor: watches curiously. “That’s a weather app?”

Louise: shakes her head. “It’s the forecasting software Aston uses to track the weather on races. And Since we race in Monaco, I can see the nearby satellite.” She says it casually, like she’s discussing grocery delivery. “This section under the red cloud? I’s Monaco. Heavy cloud cover.” Swipe. “And this—perfectly clear skies. It’s Nice.”

**Kylie: “**My jaw is actually on the floor.”

Travis: “I feel like I just accidentally enrolled in meteorology.”

**Jason: “**Why does she have cooler toys than us.”

Lando: leans back, completely unfazed. “You get used to it.”

**Taylor: “**You absolutely do not get used to it.”

Kylie: “No, you just live with a woman who casually checks satellites before deciding where to eat dinner.—That’s terrifying and hot.”

Louise: “Efficiency.” She locks the iPad.

Lando: laughs. “C'mon. It’s not that bad.”

Louise: slowly turns toward him. “We literally flew down from England because we were sick of waking up every morning to grey skies and rain.” She points back outside. “And now you want me to voluntarily endure that?” She squints. “Oh.”

Jason: “Oh what.”

Louise: “Charles and Max just lost power.”

Everyone pauses.

Travis: “Wait—how do you know that?”

Louise: blinks like she’s just realized this isn’t common knowledge. “Because their building just went dark.” She gestures toward the window.

Travis: “You can—see each other’s places?”

Louise: “It’s Monaco.” She says it the way someone says ‘water is wet.’ “You can see the whole country.” She lazily points into space. “Max and Charles that way. Oscar’s over here. Alex is—yeah, that direction. George a little to the left. Carlos is further back, uphill. I could probably see Nice too… if it wasn't for this freaking rain.”

The room laughs.

Lando: nods toward the window. “You’re sure you want to drive through the freaking rain*?*”

**Louise: “**Oh ple-ase.” She waves him off. “We’ve both driven through worse. At terminal speed.In cars without headlights.”

Jason: immediately loses it. “That’s such a racing driver answer.”

Travis: slaps the table. “She’s actually got a point.”

Lando: narrows his eyes. “So… If I don’t drive…” He folds his arms. “…are you driving?”

Louise: immediately shakes her head. “Course no.” A beat. “I’ll call my driver.”

For a second nobody speaks. Then the room erupts all over again.

Lando: drops his head into one hand. “You’ve just spent five minutes campaigning for a road trip. And now you’re outsourcing the driving?”

Louise: nods matter-of-factly. “I’m a solutions-oriented person.”

Jason: “No.” He points at her. “You’re a passenger princess.”

Louise: smiles proudly. “That too.”

Kylie: “Is that something you two actually do?” She gestures between them. “Just… pop over somewhere for a night?”

Lando: “Sometimes.”

Louise: shrugs. Then, without missing a beat— “I mean…” She points at Lando. “Why would I date someone with a Hilton partnership… if I wasn’t going to benefit from the perks?”

The room erupts.

Lando: visibly blushes—ducking his head and rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay—okay, let’s—” He laughs. “Let’s go back to the podcast, yeah?”

Kylie: “Alright…” ****still wiping tears from her eyes. “…continuing with the script.”

Louise: blinks. “…We’re still following the script?” —The room starts laughing before anyone even answers.— Louise leans back dramatically. “Gosh… this is going to take forever.”

Lando: laughing beside her. “You just got a snack.”

Louise: “I should’ve gotten dinner.”

Taylor: hides a smile behind her mug. “You’re doing great.”

Louise: points toward the camera. “Just so everyone knows…” She looks directly into the lens with complete sincerity. “If you thought my answers have been chaotic so far…” She pauses. “…just wait until I start doing it on purpose.”

Jason: immediately looks at Kylie. “Can we legally end the recording before that happens?”

Kylie: “It’s too late. We’re committed now.”

Travis: “I think we’ve accidentally entered Phase Two.”

Lando: “I’ve lived in Phase Two for two years.”

The room breaks again.

—

Kylie: “Okay. This is a good one.”

“Now that they’re public, Louise’s just going to become an F1 WAG and follow Lando around the paddock every weekend.”

Louise: immediately shakes her head. “I hate to disappoint everyone…” She smiles. “…but I’ll be training for the Olympics in the first of the year.” She glances at Lando. “And even if I do later…” She shrugs. “I still work with Aston. I’ll mostly be with them. In their kit.”

Before anyone can move on—

Lando: raises his hand like an overexcited student. “Can I just say—I will one hundred percent be her WAG.”

Louise: drops her head immediately into her hands. “Oh no.”

Lando: “Is there a male version? A HAB? WAB? Whatever it is, that’s me.” He doesn’t hesitate. “I’ll be in the grandstands wearing one of those custom T-shirts with her face printed on it. Giant foam finger. Face paint.”

The room bursts into laughter.

Louise: “Please don’t.”

Lando: “I’ll embarrass you professionally.” He smiles proudly.

Louise: groans into her hands. “I regret telling him I compete.”

—

Taylor: “I’ve got one last question.” The room quiets. “You’ve spent the last hour talking about everything that happened.” She smiles softly. “So… What do you actually hope people take away from this conversation?”

Lando: takes a moment before answering. “I think…” He glances toward Louise. “…more than anything… I hope people remember that before we’re headlines… we’re just people.” He shrugs. “We’ve got jobs. Families. Friends. We’re trying to figure things out like everyone else.” He smiles. “And hopefully… people realise we weren’t trying to hide something because we were ashamed of it. It was just ours.”

The room stays quiet.

Kylie: nods. “So beautifully put.”

Everyone instinctively looks toward Louise.

She’s… slowly rocking her chair. Side to side. Her lips purse dramatically. A finger taps against the armrest. Her brows knit together with theatrical concentration as though she’s carefully weighing something of enormous philosophical importance.

Louise: “Hmm…” She straightens a fraction. “I do actually have something.” She’s still absentmindedly rocking her chair, lips pursed in exaggerated thought. She raises one finger. “If we’re seen somewhere individually… we haven’t broken up.” A second finger. “If I’m wearing a ring… it doesn’t automatically mean we’re married.” Third finger. “If I’m wearing an oversized hoodie… I’m not pregnant.” A beat. “I’m just comfortable.”

Laughter ripples through the room.

Louise: “I’ve worn oversized clothes since I was fourteen.” She gestures at the hoodie she’s currently drowning in. “This isn’t a clue.”

More laughter.

Louise: She nods once, completely serious again. “Also— I’m Catholic.” A tiny shrug. “I can’t get pregnant out of wedlock. That's basically a sin.”

Then the room explodes.

Travis falls backwards laughing.

Taylor has both hands over her face.

Jason takes his headphones off entirely.

Even Kylie can’t get through a breath.

Lando: just closes his eyes. “…Oh no.” He rubs a hand over his face. “Charlotte…” He sighs dramatically. “…is never letting us be together in front of a camera again.”

Louise: immediately slaps both hands onto her thighs. “No. This is Charlotte’s fault.”

The room starts laughing again.

Jason: “How is this Charlotte’s fault?”

Louise: looks genuinely bewildered. “Because…” She spreads her hands. “If she’d just let me post my TikTok telling everyone to mind their own business…” She points around the call. “…none of this would’ve happened.” She nods decisively. “She created this problem.”

Lando is laughing so hard he can barely breathe.

Travis: “That’s it.—I can’t top that.”

Kylie: laughs, shaking her head. “I don’t think any podcast ever could.”

Jason: “For the collective good… I think we end it here.”

Lando: immediately nods. “Before she remembers anything else.”

Louise: opens her mouth. “I actually just thought of—”

Lando: “NOPE.”

Before she can get another word out, he hooks an arm around her shoulders, laughing as he gently pulls her into his side. With his free hand, he nudges her microphone away from her mouth.

Lando: “We’re done.”

Louise: “Lando—”

Lando: “Roll the credits.”

The room dissolves into laughter.

**Jason: “**Alright… That’s a wrap on our Valentine’s Day special, people.”

Travis: “—or whatever this turned into.”

**Kylie: “**Which was not the plan, but somehow better.”

**Taylor: “**Big thank you to Louise and Lando for trusting us with all of this.”

**Travis: “**Happy Valentine’s Day to everyone—”

Jason: “—or belated—”

Kylie: “—or anti—”

Taylor: “—or if you forgot it existed—”

Louise: frowns slightly. A thought landing late. “—wait.”

Everyone pauses.

**Louise: “**I just—” She looks at Lando. Then back at the group. **“**We never celebrated Valentine’s Day.”

There’s half a second of silence.

Lando: lets out one sharp laugh. “HA”.

Jason: leans forward, delighted. “That might be the most on-brand ending possible.”

The screen cuts.

THE END.

[lostfireflie]

No Title - Interlude

It's Nice To Have Friend...

Summary: Los Angeles isn’t home yet, but it’s beginning to feel like somewhere Louise can breathe again. Between violin lessons, donut runs, game nights, and an unexpected friendship, healing starts to look a little less like surviving—and a little more like living.

Word Count: 1.4k

Masterlist

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Los Angeles was loud. The sun cut across the city in sharp gold streaks, palm trees bending lazily in the breeze, traffic humming a constant undercurrent of life. LA introduced a different kind of rhythm. One that she was still learning to move in.

After the accident, after the crash of noise and flashing lights and adrenaline that had defined her world for so long, LA felt like a slow exhale. Adam and Behati’s house sat on a remote hill, tucked away from the worst of the city noise. From the outside it looked like glass and pale wood stacked into the slope, sunlight pouring through wide windows. Inside, there was always music somewhere. A record spinning faintly in the living room. Someone humming in the kitchen. A piano key struck absentmindedly and left to ring out.

Her fingers moved with careful precision across the violin strings.

The bow slid over them smoothly, drawing out a long, clear note that hung in the air like a thin ribbon of glass. She followed it with another, and another, the melody slowly assembling itself beneath her hands.

Her therapist had suggested music early on.

Keep her busy with the things she already loves, they had said. Let her rebuild focus somewhere safe.

Louise had taken that suggestion literally.

Her posture was exact. Shoulders loose but alert, chin resting lightly on the instrument. The room smelled faintly of varnish and polished wood, sunlight pouring through the tall windows and catching the dust floating above her music stand.

Tiny specks drifted through the beam of light like suspended stars.

She followed the sheet music carefully, but not rigidly. Her playing had always been precise—almost mathematical in its clarity—but now there was something softer threaded through it. Something exploratory.

Like she was relearning how to move inside sound.

Downstairs, the front door opened.

She didn’t stop playing, but her ear tilted toward the sound instinctively for a second.

Behati’s voice was warm and easy. A second voice followed it, lighter and curious.

“…So how is she holding up?” Taylor asked, settling onto the sofa.

“Better,” Behati replied gently. “She’s… trying. The music helps. She finally started actually talking to her teacher this week.”

There was a small pause.

“That’s good,” Taylor said softly. “Really good.”

For a moment, there was a pause, a soft shuffle of papers, the careful adjustment of a throw pillow. “I… I hope it’s okay that I came over. I just wanted to check in. See how you’re all doing.”

Behati’s laugh was quiet but warm.

“You never need permission. I’m glad you’re here.”

Upstairs when the lesson ended, Louise finished the piece slowly, the final note stretching out into silence. She set the violin down carefully, loosening the chinrest and wiping the strings with a cloth.

The familiar routine steadied her.

When she was done, she padded down the staircase.

Halfway down, she stopped.

Taylor was sitting on the couch.

Louise froze for a fraction of a second, fingers curling into the sleeve of her hoodie.

Behati noticed immediately.

“Lou,” she said gently, turning slightly. “Come here, sweetheart. It’s okay.”

Louise descended the last few steps slowly.

She stopped beside her, just behind the line of her shoulder, as if Behati’s presence formed a small shield between her and the room.

Taylor looked up.

Her smile was bright but unassuming, the kind that didn’t demand anything in return.

“Hey,” she said easily. “Hi, Louise. How are you?”

Louise’s lips moved before she fully decided what to say.

“I’m… okay.”

It wasn’t much.

Not a conversation. Not even really an answer.

But it was honest.

Taylor nodded like that was exactly the response she’d expected.

“Okay is good.”

She didn’t stand. Didn’t lean forward or close the distance. She simply stayed where she was, giving Louise the quiet space to exist in the room without pressure.

After a second, Taylor tilted her head slightly.

“What were you playing upstairs?”

Louise hesitated.

Her eyes stayed fixed somewhere near the floor, but she answered.

“Clair de Lune.”

Taylor’s eyebrows lifted.

“Oh wow.”

A small silence followed.

Louise shifted her weight.

“I… keep messing up the third part,” she added quietly.

Taylor smiled.

“That’s my favorite part of every song.”

Louise glanced up for just a fraction of a second.

“Messing up?”

“Yeah,” Taylor said. “That’s usually where the interesting stuff happens.”

Louise didn’t respond.

But the corner of her mouth twitched faintly.

—

Taylor started coming by more often after that.

Not in a way that felt scheduled or formal.

Sometimes she arrived with tea. Sometimes with a board game she claimed was “life-changing.” Sometimes with absolutely no plan at all.

She didn’t ask Louise a thousand questions.

She didn’t press for stories or explanations.

She simply existed in the same space long enough that Louise stopped feeling like she needed to disappear from it.

At first Louise hovered near the edges of rooms, lingering beside Behati or quietly retreating upstairs after a few minutes.

But little by little, that changed.

One afternoon Taylor appeared in the doorway with car keys swinging loosely from her fingers.

“Donut run,” she announced.

Louise blinked at her from the couch.

“I—”

“It’s important,” Taylor added seriously. “Very time-sensitive donut business.”

Behati hid a smile behind her coffee mug.

Louise hesitated.

“…Okay.”

—

After a few months, the dynamic shifted again. Louise began to go over to Taylor’s house, sometimes for the day, sometimes for a sleepover if Adam and Behati were out of town.

Taylor’s kitchen became a regular destination. Flour dusted the marble island like fresh snowfall as Taylor carefully folded sourdough dough over itself. Louise sat perched on the counter nearby, sleeves pushed up, hands already coated in flour.

“This part is patience,” Taylor explained, pressing the dough down again.

Louise watched carefully.

“You talk to it?” she asked quietly.

Taylor looked up, amused.

“Sometimes.”

“…Why?”

“Because it’s alive,” Taylor said with mock seriousness.

Louise considered that.

Then she leaned forward and poked the dough once with one flour-covered finger.

Taylor laughed.

—

Music was another constant.

Taylor played the piano the way some people doodled—absently, half-formed melodies spilling out while she searched for something that felt right.

One evening she kept repeating the same progression over and over.

And over.

And over.

Louise sat on the couch, listening patiently at first.

Then less patiently.

Taylor hit the wrong note again.

Louise exhaled quietly.

She stood.

Walked across the room.

And without saying a word, gently nudged Taylor’s hands aside.

Then she played the sequence herself.

Perfectly.

Taylor stared at her.

“Well,” she said after a moment. “You’re getting a writing credit on the next album.”

—

Game nights were another revelation. One evening, Travis joined, dice clattering across boards, cards fanning out in neat, deliberate chaos. Louise had won two rounds already, the triumphant smirk tugging at her lips. On the third round, just as she was about to claim another victory, Travis scooped her up mid-laugh, shaking her gently.

“You’re cheating!” he shouted dramatically, grin wide, eyes sparkling.

Louise shrieked—a high. It spilled from her, loud and fearless, filling the room with a warmth she hadn’t realized she’d been holding back. For a split second the room froze.

Then the sound that came out of her wasn’t shock.

It was laughter.

Real laughter.

Loud and bright and completely unguarded.

Everyone in the room paused just long enough to register it.

Louise caught her breath, cheeks flushed, hair loose around her shoulders, hands dusted with board-game tokens. “I… I didn’t…” she stammered, still giggling.

“Too late,” Travis said, still shaking her slightly. “Cheaters always get caught.”

She laughed again.

—

Over time, Taylor became something unexpected in Louise’s life.

Not a mentor exactly.

Not a guardian.

More like the kind of older sister you ended up with when life rearranged things unexpectedly—someone ten years ahead but somehow still operating on the same wavelength.

Protective when necessary.

But mostly just… there.

Someone who stole you for donut runs.

Someone who let you sit in flour-covered kitchens.

Someone who didn’t mind when you corrected their piano chords.

And for Louise, who had spent months carefully reconstructing herself piece by piece, that quiet, peer-like closeness became another kind of rhythm.

Not loud.

Not dramatic.

Just steady enough that she began to feel something unfamiliar again.

Normal.

[lostfireflie]

No Title - Interlude

Second Date

Summary: They... Hold... Hands

Word Count: 2.8k

Masterlist

London feels different at night.

Not quieter—never quieter—but softer somehow, like the city exhales just enough for the noise to blur into something almost rhythmic. The streetlights stretch long across damp pavement, reflections breaking under passing cars, headlights sliding across glass and stone in slow, restless patterns.

Lando pulls up a few minutes early.

He always does now.

The engine hums low beneath him as he glances at the clock on the dashboard, then at the entrance of her building. His fingers tap once against the steering wheel before he stills them, catching himself.

He’s calmer this time.

Not less aware—just… steadier.

The first date had been about proving something. To her, maybe. To himself, definitely.

Tonight feels different.

Less like a test.

More like a continuation.

The door opens.

And for a second, everything else—traffic, light, movement—just… fades.

She steps out into the London night like she belongs to it.

Not in a dramatic way.

In the way she always does—composed, deliberate, like she’s already accounted for the environment before she even fully enters it. Her coat falls cleanly over her shoulders, something structured underneath that moves just slightly with each step. Her hair is down, softer than usual, catching the light as she walks.

Lando watches her cross the pavement toward him.

Then he gets out of the car.

He doesn’t rush it.

Just steps around, opens the door for her like it’s something he’s been doing his whole life.

She pauses when she reaches him, her eyes flicking over him briefly.

“You’re early,” she says.

“You’re on time,” he replies.

She hums lightly, sliding into the seat.

He closes the door behind her, walking back around to his side, the quiet thud of the car sealing them into a smaller, more contained world.

As he starts driving, she glances at him.

“You’re very calm,” she observes.

“I’m pretending,” he says.

She smiles faintly. “Good technique.”

There’s a comfortable silence that settles between them—not empty, not searching. Just… present.

She watches the city pass outside her window for a moment before looking back at him.

“So,” she says, “where are you taking me?”

He glances at her briefly, then back at the road.

“You’ll see.”

“That’s not reassuring.”

“It’s not meant to be.”

She studies him for a second longer, then leans back slightly, folding one arm across her middle.

“Alright,” she says. “I trust you.”

The words land heavier than she probably intended.

He feels it.

Doesn’t comment on it.

Just nods once.

They drive a little longer, turning off into a quieter street—less traffic, more shadows, buildings closer together, the city narrowing into something more private.

He pulls up in front of a restaurant.

From the outside, it looks closed.

Lights low. Curtains drawn halfway. No visible movement inside.

Louise glances at it, then at him.

“Lando.”

“It’s open.”

“It doesn’t look open.”

“It is.”

She narrows her eyes slightly but unbuckles her seatbelt anyway.

He steps out first again, coming around to open her door.

“You’re sure?” she asks as she steps onto the pavement.

“Very.”

She looks at the entrance again, then back at him.

“This feels like the beginning of a questionable decision.”

“You already said you trust me.”

“That was before it looked abandoned.”

He smiles, gesturing toward the door. “Come on.”

He reaches for the handle and pushes it open.

Inside, the lights are warm.

Soft.

Intentional.

The entire space is empty.

No other tables occupied. No low murmur of conversation. Just the faint sound of music—something instrumental, quiet enough to sit beneath everything else without interrupting.

Louise steps in slowly, her gaze sweeping the room.

Then she turns to him.

“You closed a restaurant.”

“I didn’t close it,” he corrects. “I just… asked nicely.”

She stares at him.

“Lando.”

He shrugs slightly, suddenly aware of how it sounds. “I know the owner.”

A man appears from the back, greeting Lando with easy familiarity, a handshake that turns into a quick half-hug.

“Good to see you,” he says, then turns to Louise with a warm, respectful smile. “Welcome.”

She nods politely, still processing.

They’re led to a table by the window.

Candles flicker softly between them, light catching the edges of glassware, the polished surface of the table reflecting just enough to double the warmth.

Lando pulls her chair out.

She sits, slower this time.

More aware.

When he takes his seat across from her, she leans forward slightly, lowering her voice just enough that it feels like something shared.

“You closed a restaurant,” she repeats.

“I told you,” he says lightly, “I didn’t close it.”

“You arranged for us to be the only people here.”

He pauses.

“…Yes.”

She studies him.

There’s no teasing in her expression now.

Just curiosity.

And something softer beneath it.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she says.

“I wanted to.”

The same answer as before.

But it lands differently here.

Menus are brought, but they don’t rush to open them.

Instead, they sit there for a moment, letting the space settle around them.

It feels… different.

Not like the first date.

Not like something being built from scratch.

More like something being… continued.

The restaurant remains still around them, the kind of stillness that doesn’t feel empty, just… reserved.

Louise is saying something—something about a set she worked on that had gone catastrophically wrong in a way that only becomes funny months later—when Lando’s attention shifts.

Not away from her.

Just… narrower.

More focused.

He’s looking at her hands.

It’s not obvious at first. His gaze flickers down briefly when she gestures, then returns to her face, then drifts again, like he’s trying not to be caught doing it.

Her fingers move as she talks, precise even in something as unconscious as storytelling. There’s a steadiness to them. Control. The same kind he’s noticed in everything she does.

She catches it eventually.

Her words taper off just slightly as her eyes drop to follow his line of sight, then lift back to him with a faint narrowing of suspicion.

“What?” she asks.

He blinks, like he’s been pulled out of something.

“Nothing.”

“That wasn’t nothing.”

He huffs a quiet breath, glancing down once more before meeting her eyes again.

“Can I—” He pauses, then restarts, more direct this time. “Can I hold your hand?”

The question lands gently between them.

Not heavy.

Just… deliberate.

Louise stills for half a second.

Not because she’s unsure.

More because of the way he asked it.

There’s no assumption in it. No reaching across the table mid-sentence, no casual claim.

Just a question.

She studies him briefly, something soft flickering behind her eyes.

Then she nods.

“Okay.”

He doesn’t rush it.

He shifts slightly in his seat, leaning forward just enough to close the distance, his hand coming to rest on the table first—an offering, not an interruption.

She looks at it for a second.

Then places hers in his.

It’s simple.

It shouldn’t feel like much.

But it does.

Her hand fits easily against his, her fingers settling without hesitation, like the space was always meant to be filled that way. His thumb brushes once across her knuckles, tentative at first, then a little more certain when she doesn’t pull away.

He exhales quietly.

Almost like he didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath.

“You’re cold,” he says, more to the moment than to her.

She tilts her head slightly, watching him now instead of the room, instead of the table.

“You sound surprised.”

“I am,” he admits.

There’s a small pause.

Then, softer, almost thoughtful—

“They’re soft.”

Louise lets out a quiet, surprised laugh at that.

“Soft?” she repeats, like the word doesn’t quite belong to her.

She shifts her hand slightly in his, turning it so her palm faces upward, her fingers curling just enough for him to feel it properly.

“Lando,” she says, amused now, “my hands are full of callouses.”

He frowns slightly, like he doesn’t agree with the premise.

“They are,” she insists, a hint of something fond in her tone. “Violin. Shooting. Years of it. You don’t press strings and triggers like that and walk away with soft hands.”

He studies her hand more closely now, his thumb tracing lightly along the pads of her fingers, the subtle roughness there that most people wouldn’t notice unless they were looking for it.

He is.

“Still soft,” he says.

She huffs another laugh, quieter this time, shaking her head slightly.

“You’re biased.”

“Probably.”

He lifts his gaze back to hers, something steadier settling into his expression.

“But even your callouses are soft.”

The way he says it isn’t teasing.

It’s not a line.

It’s… observation.

Louise’s breath catches just slightly—not enough to be obvious, but enough that she notices it.

Her fingers shift in his, tightening just a fraction.

“That doesn’t make any sense,” she says, softer now.

“It does to me.”

There’s a small silence that follows.

Not awkward.

Not searching.

Just… full.

She looks down at their hands for a moment, then back at him, her expression quieter than before, something more unguarded slipping through.

“You notice strange things,” she says.

“I notice you.”

The words land without ceremony.

No buildup.

No expectation.

And somehow that makes them heavier.

Louise doesn’t answer immediately.

She doesn’t deflect, doesn’t turn it into a joke.

She just… looks at him.

Then, after a second, her thumb brushes lightly against the side of his hand—mirroring the gesture he’d made earlier, softer, but intentional.

Their food arrives—carefully timed, beautifully plated, but neither of them comments on it immediately.

Because the conversation shifts.

Less questioning this time.

More… sharing.

Stories that don’t need prompting.

He tells her about the first time he drove in the rain and couldn’t see anything but still didn’t lift.

She tells him about the first time she realized she could walk into a room and people would already have decided who she was.

They don’t rush.

Don’t fill every silence.

Let things sit where they land.

At some point, she leans back slightly, watching him with that same quiet attention she always carries—but now there’s something warmer in it.

“You’re different tonight,” she says.

“How?”

“Less… careful.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “That’s ironic.”

“Why?”

“Because I feel like I’m being more careful.”

She tilts her head.

“Not in what you say,” she clarifies. “In… how you are.”

He considers that.

Then nods slowly.

“Yeah,” he says. “That’s probably true.”

She studies him for another moment.

Then smiles, softer now.

“I like it.”

Something in him settles at that.

Not excitement.

Not nerves.

Something steadier.

—

After dinner, they don’t rush to leave.

They linger.

Talk about nothing and everything in equal measure.

At one point, she stands, drifting slightly toward the window, looking out at the quiet street beyond.

He joins her.

They stand side by side, not touching, but close enough that the space between them feels intentional.

She turns her head slightly, looking at him.

He meets her gaze.

Doesn’t look away.

She holds his gaze for a second longer.

Then smiles.

Not teasing.

Not guarded.

Just… certain.

When they finally leave, the city feels louder again.

Brighter.

But it doesn’t press in the same way.

—

Sound returns first—the distant rush of traffic, the low hum of conversations spilling out from nearby doorways, the occasional burst of laughter carried by the night air. It feels louder after the quiet of the restaurant, sharper at the edges, like the world has been waiting for them to step back into it.

Lando opens the passenger door for her without thinking.

Louise pauses for the briefest second before getting in, her hand brushing lightly against his sleeve as she passes him—an unconscious echo of earlier, of the table, of something that hasn’t quite let go yet.

He closes the door, walks around, slides into his seat.

The engine starts, a low, steady vibration filling the space. The dashboard lights flicker on, casting a soft glow across his hands on the wheel, across the curve of her cheek as she looks out the window.

London moves around them.

Headlights streak past. Reflections ripple across the glass. The world is in motion again, but inside the car, it feels contained. Smaller.

He pulls away from the curb, merging into the slow flow of traffic.

She watches the street for a minute or two, following the blur of people and light, before her gaze drifts—almost absentmindedly—toward him.

Then to his hand.

Resting on the center console.

Still.

Available.

She doesn’t say anything.

Neither does he.

But there’s a quiet awareness that settles between them, like a thread they both know is there.

At the next red light, he glances at her.

Just briefly.

Then, without making a point of it, he shifts his hand off the console and rests it on the space between them, palm up.

The same way he had at the table.

Not reaching.

Just… offering.

Louise looks at it.

A small smile touches her mouth—barely there, more in the softness of her eyes than anything else.

She slides her hand into his.

It fits just as easily this time.

Like it didn’t stop.

Like the space between the restaurant and the car never really broke it.

The light turns green.

He drives.

One hand on the wheel, the other holding hers, his thumb brushing slowly, absentmindedly along the side of her hand. It’s not tentative anymore. Not careful in the same way.

Just… there.

She shifts slightly in her seat, turning a little more toward him, even if her gaze returns to the window.

“You’re getting comfortable,” she says after a moment, her tone light but quieter than before.

He hums. “You didn’t say I couldn’t.”

“I didn’t say you could either.”

He glances at her again, a faint smile pulling at his mouth.

“Feels like implied consent at this point.”

She exhales a soft laugh, shaking her head slightly, but her fingers tighten just a fraction around his.

“Dangerous assumption.”

“Seems to be working.”

She doesn’t argue with that.

The car moves through the city in smooth, unhurried turns, the kind of drive where neither of them feels the need to fill the space constantly. The silence isn’t empty—it’s layered with everything that’s already been said, everything that hasn’t needed to be.

At one point, her thumb traces lightly over the back of his hand, a small, absent gesture, like she’s testing the shape of it.

He notices.

Of course he does.

His grip shifts just slightly in response, not holding tighter, just… adjusting, making space for it.

“You’re distracted,” she murmurs.

“I’m driving.”

“You’re holding my hand like it requires concentration.”

He lets out a quiet laugh. “It might.”

She turns her head fully now, studying him with that familiar, quiet scrutiny.

“You’re serious.”

He shrugs slightly, eyes still on the road.

“A little.”

There’s a pause.

Then, softer—

“I like it.”

It’s not a big statement.

Not framed like one.

But it lands anyway.

His thumb stills for half a second against her skin before moving again, slower now.

“Good, I like it too.” he says.

The rest of the drive folds into something easy.

A turn here. A stoplight there. The rhythm of the city carrying them forward while everything inside the car stays… steady.

When they pull up outside her place, neither of them moves immediately.

The engine idles softly.

The world outside continues.

Inside, it’s quiet again.

Their hands are still joined.

Louise glances at them, then back at him, a small, thoughtful expression settling across her face.

“You didn’t let go,” she says.

He looks down briefly, like he’s just realizing it.

Then back at her.

“Did you want me to?”

She considers that.

Then shakes her head.

“No.”

Another quiet stretch passes between them, neither seeming particularly eager to be the first to end the evening.

Eventually Louise reaches for the buckle of her seatbelt, the click sounding almost louder than it should. Even then, she doesn’t let go straight away. Their fingers separate gradually, sliding against each other until the last touch disappears, leaving an absence that feels oddly tangible.

She turns toward him instead of reaching for the door.

For a second, they simply look at each other.

Then, almost instinctively, Lando leans across the center console.

He hesitates just enough to give her every chance to pull away.

She doesn’t.

His lips brush gently against her cheek, warm and lingering for only a heartbeat before he pulls back.

A soft laugh escapes her nose, the smile on her face growing despite herself.

“So we’re doing cheek kisses now?”

“I… thought it felt appropriate.”

“It did.”

Before he can retreat completely, she leans in too, returning the gesture with a gentle kiss against his own cheek.

It’s brief.

Simple.

Somehow impossibly intimate.

When she settles back into her seat, they’re both smiling in that quiet, slightly disbelieving way people do when something unexpectedly right has just happened.

She finally reaches for the door, then pauses, looking back at him.

“You’re making this very difficult to categorize.”

“How so?”

She tilts her head, amusement softening her expression.

“This,” she says, gesturing lightly between them, “feels less like a second date and more like… something else.”

He studies her for a long moment.

Then, quietly—

“Yeah.”

She holds his gaze.

Doesn’t ask him to define it.

Doesn’t try to herself.

She simply nods, as though that answer is enough.

For now.

“Goodnight, Lando.”

“Goodnight, Lou.”

She climbs out into the cool evening air, closing the door with a soft thud behind her.

Lando watches as she walks toward the entrance, unhurried, his eyes following her the whole way.

At the door, she pauses.

Looks back one last time.

Their eyes meet across the distance.

She smiles.

Then disappears inside.

Lando remains where he is for another minute, one hand resting absentmindedly against the cheek she’d just kissed.

A grin slowly spreads across his face.

It lingers all the way through the drive home.

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[lostfireflie]

Sooo,

I just realized I uploaded the wrong version of the next chapter into my drafts ☠️

And I can't fix it this weekend.

So I'm posting interludes that so far were AO3 exclusive. My bad, Enjoy!

I'll try to post the podcast chapter on Monday!

[lostfireflie]

No Title - Interlude

Second Date

Summary: They... Hold... Hands

Word Count: 2.8k

Masterlist

London feels different at night.

Not quieter—never quieter—but softer somehow, like the city exhales just enough for the noise to blur into something almost rhythmic. The streetlights stretch long across damp pavement, reflections breaking under passing cars, headlights sliding across glass and stone in slow, restless patterns.

Lando pulls up a few minutes early.

He always does now.

The engine hums low beneath him as he glances at the clock on the dashboard, then at the entrance of her building. His fingers tap once against the steering wheel before he stills them, catching himself.

He’s calmer this time.

Not less aware—just… steadier.

The first date had been about proving something. To her, maybe. To himself, definitely.

Tonight feels different.

Less like a test.

More like a continuation.

The door opens.

And for a second, everything else—traffic, light, movement—just… fades.

She steps out into the London night like she belongs to it.

Not in a dramatic way.

In the way she always does—composed, deliberate, like she’s already accounted for the environment before she even fully enters it. Her coat falls cleanly over her shoulders, something structured underneath that moves just slightly with each step. Her hair is down, softer than usual, catching the light as she walks.

Lando watches her cross the pavement toward him.

Then he gets out of the car.

He doesn’t rush it.

Just steps around, opens the door for her like it’s something he’s been doing his whole life.

She pauses when she reaches him, her eyes flicking over him briefly.

“You’re early,” she says.

“You’re on time,” he replies.

She hums lightly, sliding into the seat.

He closes the door behind her, walking back around to his side, the quiet thud of the car sealing them into a smaller, more contained world.

As he starts driving, she glances at him.

“You’re very calm,” she observes.

“I’m pretending,” he says.

She smiles faintly. “Good technique.”

There’s a comfortable silence that settles between them—not empty, not searching. Just… present.

She watches the city pass outside her window for a moment before looking back at him.

“So,” she says, “where are you taking me?”

He glances at her briefly, then back at the road.

“You’ll see.”

“That’s not reassuring.”

“It’s not meant to be.”

She studies him for a second longer, then leans back slightly, folding one arm across her middle.

“Alright,” she says. “I trust you.”

The words land heavier than she probably intended.

He feels it.

Doesn’t comment on it.

Just nods once.

They drive a little longer, turning off into a quieter street—less traffic, more shadows, buildings closer together, the city narrowing into something more private.

He pulls up in front of a restaurant.

From the outside, it looks closed.

Lights low. Curtains drawn halfway. No visible movement inside.

Louise glances at it, then at him.

“Lando.”

“It’s open.”

“It doesn’t look open.”

“It is.”

She narrows her eyes slightly but unbuckles her seatbelt anyway.

He steps out first again, coming around to open her door.

“You’re sure?” she asks as she steps onto the pavement.

“Very.”

She looks at the entrance again, then back at him.

“This feels like the beginning of a questionable decision.”

“You already said you trust me.”

“That was before it looked abandoned.”

He smiles, gesturing toward the door. “Come on.”

He reaches for the handle and pushes it open.

Inside, the lights are warm.

Soft.

Intentional.

The entire space is empty.

No other tables occupied. No low murmur of conversation. Just the faint sound of music—something instrumental, quiet enough to sit beneath everything else without interrupting.

Louise steps in slowly, her gaze sweeping the room.

Then she turns to him.

“You closed a restaurant.”

“I didn’t close it,” he corrects. “I just… asked nicely.”

She stares at him.

“Lando.”

He shrugs slightly, suddenly aware of how it sounds. “I know the owner.”

A man appears from the back, greeting Lando with easy familiarity, a handshake that turns into a quick half-hug.

“Good to see you,” he says, then turns to Louise with a warm, respectful smile. “Welcome.”

She nods politely, still processing.

They’re led to a table by the window.

Candles flicker softly between them, light catching the edges of glassware, the polished surface of the table reflecting just enough to double the warmth.

Lando pulls her chair out.

She sits, slower this time.

More aware.

When he takes his seat across from her, she leans forward slightly, lowering her voice just enough that it feels like something shared.

“You closed a restaurant,” she repeats.

“I told you,” he says lightly, “I didn’t close it.”

“You arranged for us to be the only people here.”

He pauses.

“…Yes.”

She studies him.

There’s no teasing in her expression now.

Just curiosity.

And something softer beneath it.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she says.

“I wanted to.”

The same answer as before.

But it lands differently here.

Menus are brought, but they don’t rush to open them.

Instead, they sit there for a moment, letting the space settle around them.

It feels… different.

Not like the first date.

Not like something being built from scratch.

More like something being… continued.

The restaurant remains still around them, the kind of stillness that doesn’t feel empty, just… reserved.

Louise is saying something—something about a set she worked on that had gone catastrophically wrong in a way that only becomes funny months later—when Lando’s attention shifts.

Not away from her.

Just… narrower.

More focused.

He’s looking at her hands.

It’s not obvious at first. His gaze flickers down briefly when she gestures, then returns to her face, then drifts again, like he’s trying not to be caught doing it.

Her fingers move as she talks, precise even in something as unconscious as storytelling. There’s a steadiness to them. Control. The same kind he’s noticed in everything she does.

She catches it eventually.

Her words taper off just slightly as her eyes drop to follow his line of sight, then lift back to him with a faint narrowing of suspicion.

“What?” she asks.

He blinks, like he’s been pulled out of something.

“Nothing.”

“That wasn’t nothing.”

He huffs a quiet breath, glancing down once more before meeting her eyes again.

“Can I—” He pauses, then restarts, more direct this time. “Can I hold your hand?”

The question lands gently between them.

Not heavy.

Just… deliberate.

Louise stills for half a second.

Not because she’s unsure.

More because of the way he asked it.

There’s no assumption in it. No reaching across the table mid-sentence, no casual claim.

Just a question.

She studies him briefly, something soft flickering behind her eyes.

Then she nods.

“Okay.”

He doesn’t rush it.

He shifts slightly in his seat, leaning forward just enough to close the distance, his hand coming to rest on the table first—an offering, not an interruption.

She looks at it for a second.

Then places hers in his.

It’s simple.

It shouldn’t feel like much.

But it does.

Her hand fits easily against his, her fingers settling without hesitation, like the space was always meant to be filled that way. His thumb brushes once across her knuckles, tentative at first, then a little more certain when she doesn’t pull away.

He exhales quietly.

Almost like he didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath.

“You’re cold,” he says, more to the moment than to her.

She tilts her head slightly, watching him now instead of the room, instead of the table.

“You sound surprised.”

“I am,” he admits.

There’s a small pause.

Then, softer, almost thoughtful—

“They’re soft.”

Louise lets out a quiet, surprised laugh at that.

“Soft?” she repeats, like the word doesn’t quite belong to her.

She shifts her hand slightly in his, turning it so her palm faces upward, her fingers curling just enough for him to feel it properly.

“Lando,” she says, amused now, “my hands are full of callouses.”

He frowns slightly, like he doesn’t agree with the premise.

“They are,” she insists, a hint of something fond in her tone. “Violin. Shooting. Years of it. You don’t press strings and triggers like that and walk away with soft hands.”

He studies her hand more closely now, his thumb tracing lightly along the pads of her fingers, the subtle roughness there that most people wouldn’t notice unless they were looking for it.

He is.

“Still soft,” he says.

She huffs another laugh, quieter this time, shaking her head slightly.

“You’re biased.”

“Probably.”

He lifts his gaze back to hers, something steadier settling into his expression.

“But even your callouses are soft.”

The way he says it isn’t teasing.

It’s not a line.

It’s… observation.

Louise’s breath catches just slightly—not enough to be obvious, but enough that she notices it.

Her fingers shift in his, tightening just a fraction.

“That doesn’t make any sense,” she says, softer now.

“It does to me.”

There’s a small silence that follows.

Not awkward.

Not searching.

Just… full.

She looks down at their hands for a moment, then back at him, her expression quieter than before, something more unguarded slipping through.

“You notice strange things,” she says.

“I notice you.”

The words land without ceremony.

No buildup.

No expectation.

And somehow that makes them heavier.

Louise doesn’t answer immediately.

She doesn’t deflect, doesn’t turn it into a joke.

She just… looks at him.

Then, after a second, her thumb brushes lightly against the side of his hand—mirroring the gesture he’d made earlier, softer, but intentional.

Their food arrives—carefully timed, beautifully plated, but neither of them comments on it immediately.

Because the conversation shifts.

Less questioning this time.

More… sharing.

Stories that don’t need prompting.

He tells her about the first time he drove in the rain and couldn’t see anything but still didn’t lift.

She tells him about the first time she realized she could walk into a room and people would already have decided who she was.

They don’t rush.

Don’t fill every silence.

Let things sit where they land.

At some point, she leans back slightly, watching him with that same quiet attention she always carries—but now there’s something warmer in it.

“You’re different tonight,” she says.

“How?”

“Less… careful.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “That’s ironic.”

“Why?”

“Because I feel like I’m being more careful.”

She tilts her head.

“Not in what you say,” she clarifies. “In… how you are.”

He considers that.

Then nods slowly.

“Yeah,” he says. “That’s probably true.”

She studies him for another moment.

Then smiles, softer now.

“I like it.”

Something in him settles at that.

Not excitement.

Not nerves.

Something steadier.

—

After dinner, they don’t rush to leave.

They linger.

Talk about nothing and everything in equal measure.

At one point, she stands, drifting slightly toward the window, looking out at the quiet street beyond.

He joins her.

They stand side by side, not touching, but close enough that the space between them feels intentional.

She turns her head slightly, looking at him.

He meets her gaze.

Doesn’t look away.

She holds his gaze for a second longer.

Then smiles.

Not teasing.

Not guarded.

Just… certain.

When they finally leave, the city feels louder again.

Brighter.

But it doesn’t press in the same way.

—

Sound returns first—the distant rush of traffic, the low hum of conversations spilling out from nearby doorways, the occasional burst of laughter carried by the night air. It feels louder after the quiet of the restaurant, sharper at the edges, like the world has been waiting for them to step back into it.

Lando opens the passenger door for her without thinking.

Louise pauses for the briefest second before getting in, her hand brushing lightly against his sleeve as she passes him—an unconscious echo of earlier, of the table, of something that hasn’t quite let go yet.

He closes the door, walks around, slides into his seat.

The engine starts, a low, steady vibration filling the space. The dashboard lights flicker on, casting a soft glow across his hands on the wheel, across the curve of her cheek as she looks out the window.

London moves around them.

Headlights streak past. Reflections ripple across the glass. The world is in motion again, but inside the car, it feels contained. Smaller.

He pulls away from the curb, merging into the slow flow of traffic.

She watches the street for a minute or two, following the blur of people and light, before her gaze drifts—almost absentmindedly—toward him.

Then to his hand.

Resting on the center console.

Still.

Available.

She doesn’t say anything.

Neither does he.

But there’s a quiet awareness that settles between them, like a thread they both know is there.

At the next red light, he glances at her.

Just briefly.

Then, without making a point of it, he shifts his hand off the console and rests it on the space between them, palm up.

The same way he had at the table.

Not reaching.

Just… offering.

Louise looks at it.

A small smile touches her mouth—barely there, more in the softness of her eyes than anything else.

She slides her hand into his.

It fits just as easily this time.

Like it didn’t stop.

Like the space between the restaurant and the car never really broke it.

The light turns green.

He drives.

One hand on the wheel, the other holding hers, his thumb brushing slowly, absentmindedly along the side of her hand. It’s not tentative anymore. Not careful in the same way.

Just… there.

She shifts slightly in her seat, turning a little more toward him, even if her gaze returns to the window.

“You’re getting comfortable,” she says after a moment, her tone light but quieter than before.

He hums. “You didn’t say I couldn’t.”

“I didn’t say you could either.”

He glances at her again, a faint smile pulling at his mouth.

“Feels like implied consent at this point.”

She exhales a soft laugh, shaking her head slightly, but her fingers tighten just a fraction around his.

“Dangerous assumption.”

“Seems to be working.”

She doesn’t argue with that.

The car moves through the city in smooth, unhurried turns, the kind of drive where neither of them feels the need to fill the space constantly. The silence isn’t empty—it’s layered with everything that’s already been said, everything that hasn’t needed to be.

At one point, her thumb traces lightly over the back of his hand, a small, absent gesture, like she’s testing the shape of it.

He notices.

Of course he does.

His grip shifts just slightly in response, not holding tighter, just… adjusting, making space for it.

“You’re distracted,” she murmurs.

“I’m driving.”

“You’re holding my hand like it requires concentration.”

He lets out a quiet laugh. “It might.”

She turns her head fully now, studying him with that familiar, quiet scrutiny.

“You’re serious.”

He shrugs slightly, eyes still on the road.

“A little.”

There’s a pause.

Then, softer—

“I like it.”

It’s not a big statement.

Not framed like one.

But it lands anyway.

His thumb stills for half a second against her skin before moving again, slower now.

“Good, I like it too.” he says.

The rest of the drive folds into something easy.

A turn here. A stoplight there. The rhythm of the city carrying them forward while everything inside the car stays… steady.

When they pull up outside her place, neither of them moves immediately.

The engine idles softly.

The world outside continues.

Inside, it’s quiet again.

Their hands are still joined.

Louise glances at them, then back at him, a small, thoughtful expression settling across her face.

“You didn’t let go,” she says.

He looks down briefly, like he’s just realizing it.

Then back at her.

“Did you want me to?”

She considers that.

Then shakes her head.

“No.”

Another quiet stretch passes between them, neither seeming particularly eager to be the first to end the evening.

Eventually Louise reaches for the buckle of her seatbelt, the click sounding almost louder than it should. Even then, she doesn’t let go straight away. Their fingers separate gradually, sliding against each other until the last touch disappears, leaving an absence that feels oddly tangible.

She turns toward him instead of reaching for the door.

For a second, they simply look at each other.

Then, almost instinctively, Lando leans across the center console.

He hesitates just enough to give her every chance to pull away.

She doesn’t.

His lips brush gently against her cheek, warm and lingering for only a heartbeat before he pulls back.

A soft laugh escapes her nose, the smile on her face growing despite herself.

“So we’re doing cheek kisses now?”

“I… thought it felt appropriate.”

“It did.”

Before he can retreat completely, she leans in too, returning the gesture with a gentle kiss against his own cheek.

It’s brief.

Simple.

Somehow impossibly intimate.

When she settles back into her seat, they’re both smiling in that quiet, slightly disbelieving way people do when something unexpectedly right has just happened.

She finally reaches for the door, then pauses, looking back at him.

“You’re making this very difficult to categorize.”

“How so?”

She tilts her head, amusement softening her expression.

“This,” she says, gesturing lightly between them, “feels less like a second date and more like… something else.”

He studies her for a long moment.

Then, quietly—

“Yeah.”

She holds his gaze.

Doesn’t ask him to define it.

Doesn’t try to herself.

She simply nods, as though that answer is enough.

For now.

“Goodnight, Lando.”

“Goodnight, Lou.”

She climbs out into the cool evening air, closing the door with a soft thud behind her.

Lando watches as she walks toward the entrance, unhurried, his eyes following her the whole way.

At the door, she pauses.

Looks back one last time.

Their eyes meet across the distance.

She smiles.

Then disappears inside.

Lando remains where he is for another minute, one hand resting absentmindedly against the cheek she’d just kissed.

A grin slowly spreads across his face.

It lingers all the way through the drive home.

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[lostfireflie]

No Title - Interlude

Room to Grow

Summary: Louise sets out for tea and comes home with something she never expected: the possibility of a fresh start. As one door quietly closes, another begins to open—one that asks them to think less about what they’ve lost, and more about everything they’re still growing toward.

Word Count: 3.6k

Masterlist

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By Thursday afternoon she decides she needs to leave the apartment.

Not because she’s hiding.

Because staying inside all week makes the walls feel closer than they actually are.

Monaco carries on around her as though nothing monumental has happened.

Tourists photograph the casino.

Construction workers argue cheerfully across scaffolding.

A woman walks three dachshunds that somehow all insist on stopping in different directions.

Life has the audacity to continue.

Louise finds she appreciates that.

She wanders into a quiet tea shop she likes—small, understated, the kind of place that smelled faintly of bergamot and wood polish. The bell above the door chimed softly as she stepped inside.

Warmth wraps around her immediately.

She smiles before she even realises she’s doing it.

“Back again?”

The owner looks up from behind the counter.

“I was wondering when you’d come rescue your tea cabinet.”

Louise laughs.

He hums knowingly before disappearing to fetch one of her favourites without even asking.

She wanders between the shelves while he works.

Jasmine pearls.

Genmaicha.

A new oolong she’d never tried.

She lifts one of the sample jars, inhaling slowly.

For the first time in what feels like weeks—

Her chest loosens.

Tea has always been uncomplicated.

Leaves.

Water.

Time.

There are no headlines attached to any of those things.

“…Louise?”

She turns.

Lewis stands near the entrance, sunglasses pushed onto the top of his head, one hand still resting on the door he’d only just opened.

For half a second he looks genuinely surprised.

Then he smiles.

“There you are.”

“Hi Lewis.”

She walks over, accepting the hug he offers without hesitation.

It isn’t dramatic.

Just warm.

He studies her for a second after they step apart.

Not obviously.

Just enough to take her in.

“You alright?”

She smiles automatically.

“I’m getting there.”

He nods once.

“I figured.”

The shopkeeper quietly excuses himself toward the back room, giving them space without making it obvious.

Lewis folds his hands into the pockets of his coat.

“So.”

His voice softens.

“How are things?”

Not how are you.

How are things.

The difference doesn’t escape her.

She lets out a slow breath.

“…Complicated.”

“I can imagine.”

“But they’re calming down now.”

“The press?”

“The press. Legal.” She rolls one shoulder. “Everyone.”

He nods again.

“And?”

She looks down at one of the tea tins she still absentmindedly holds.

“There are still meetings.”

“Lawyers?”

“Mhm.”

“Anything serious?”

“No.”

Not anymore.

“Mostly paperwork. Statements. Making sure everything’s documented.”

Lewis’ expression eases.

“And the teams?”

“They’ve been… clear.”

“I’m glad.”

He means it.

There isn’t a hint of polite conversation about it.

He’d seen enough over the years to know exactly how ugly these situations could become.

“Were there many repercussions?”

She thinks for a moment.

“Less than we expected.”

“That’s good.”

“There are still people talking.”

“There always will be.”

She laughs quietly.

“I’ve noticed.”

A comfortable silence settles between them.

Lewis tilts his head.

“Are you staying at your place?”

Her answer comes immediately.

“No.”

He doesn’t interrupt.

“I couldn’t go back.”

Simple.

Matter-of-fact.

As though she’d already explained it enough times that she’d stopped decorating the sentence.

“I’m staying with Lando.”

Lewis nods slowly.

“And… honestly?”

“I don’t think I’ll live there again.”

His brows lift almost imperceptibly.

“I’m thinking about selling.”

She says it aloud and realises it sounds more real than it ever has inside her own head.

“I just…”

She searches for the words.

“All I can think about is someone watching.”

Lewis’ face softens.

“I get that.”

“It doesn’t feel like mine anymore. It feels like somewhere something happened.”

He looks out through the shop window for a moment, watching people drift along the pavement outside.

“So where would you go?”

She laughs through her nose.

“I have absolutely no idea.”

She shakes her head.

“Monaco’s impossible.”

“It is.”

“I don’t want another glass tower.”

“Wise.”

“I don’t want somewhere everyone knows.”

“Also wise.”

“I don’t even know where I’d start looking.”

Lewis is quiet for several seconds.

Long enough that she glances back at him.

“I might have an idea.”

She waits.

“My penthouse.”

She blinks.

“The one in Fontvieille?”

He nods.

“It’s still empty.”

“I thought you sold it.”

“Tried.”

“When?”

“A few years ago.”

She frowns.

“I never found someone I trusted enough.”

His answer is almost casual.

Almost.

“I’ve had offers.”

“Lots of them.”

“But eventually I realised I cared more about who lived there than how much they were offering.”

Louise stares at him.

“Lewis…”

“I’m serious.”

“You’d sell it to me?”

“If you wanted it.”

She laughs once, entirely out of disbelief.

“…Are you sure?”

He smiles.

“I’m not offering out of charity.”

“I know.”

“I just…”

She gestures helplessly.

“It’s your home.”

“It was.”

He shrugs.

“I haven’t lived there properly in years.”

“And I’d rather know someone’s making memories there than keep letting it sit empty because every billionaire in Europe thinks it’s another investment.”

She looks at him for a long moment.

“I don’t even know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know you are.”

He smiles again.

“Think about it.”

“No pressure.”

“If you decide it’s not right, nothing changes.”

“And if you want to see it again…”

He reaches into his pocket for his phone.

“I still have the keys.”

Louise can’t help smiling.

For the first time since leaving her apartment, the future doesn’t feel like an endless series of things she’d lost.

It feels, unexpectedly, like there might still be somewhere waiting to become home again.

Then Louise’s eyes flickered with mischief.

“So,” she said lightly, leaning back in her chair, “moving into Calabasas for good?”

He groaned instantly. “Don’t start.”

She widened her eyes innocently. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

He pointed at her accusingly. “You know exactly what you're talking about.”

She sipped her tea, hiding a grin. “All I’m saying is… if you ever there, my house is on the other side of the hill.”

He laughed despite himself, shaking his head. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” she replied sweetly, “you're considering selling me your penthouse.”

—

By the time Louise lets herself back into the apartment, the sun has begun sinking behind the buildings, washing the living room in that golden Monaco light that makes everything look softer than it really is.

The familiar scent of garlic and butter greets her before she even gets the door fully open.

She smiles instinctively.

“Lando?”

“In here.”

His voice carries from the kitchen.

She slips off her shoes by the door, setting the paper tea bag carefully on the console table before wandering toward the sound.

He’s standing over the hob, one hand stirring a pan while the other scrolls through something on his phone balanced against the coffee machine. He’s changed into grey joggers and one of his old Quadrant hoodies, curls even messier than when she’d left.

He glances over his shoulder.

She walks straight over, wrapping both arms around his waist from behind without saying anything.

He smiles immediately.

One hand leaves the wooden spoon to settle over hers.

“Good walk?”

“Mhm.”

“You disappear for two hours and come back smelling like an entire tea plantation.”

“I may have bought tea.”

He snorts.

“May have?”

“I definitely bought tea.”

“I gathered.”

She presses her forehead between his shoulder blades, enjoying the simple familiarity of standing there while dinner cooks.

He gives the sauce another stir before turning the heat down.

“So?”

“So?”

“How was Monaco?”

She shrugs against him.

“It was… nice.”

“I walked for ages.”

“Mhm.”

“Went to the tea shop.”

“The little one?”

She nods.

“The owner says I have a tea addiction.”

“He’s right.”

She rolls her eyes.

He turns off the hob completely before twisting around inside her arms until they’re facing one another.

His hands settle lightly on her hips.

“What else?”

She hesitates.

“I bumped into Lewis.”

His eyebrows rise.

“Oh?”

He reaches past her to grab two glasses from the cupboard.

“How is he?”

“Good.”

“He asked how things were going.”

Lando pauses halfway through filling the glasses.

“Everything?”

“Not in an intrusive way.”

She leans back against the counter.

“He wasn’t asking out of curiosity.”

He nods slowly.

“That sounds like Lewis.”

She watches him for a second.

“I told him I was thinking about selling my apartment.”

Lando stays quiet.

Not because he doesn’t have anything to say.

Because he wants to hear the rest.

Her eyes meet his.

“…he offered me his penthouse.”

Silence.

Lando blinks.

“…Lewis’ penthouse?”

She nods.

Lando leans one hip against the counter, considering it.

“He offered to sell it to you?”

“He did.”

“Just… like that?”

“He told me to think about it.”

“And?”

“He said he cared more about who lived there than how much someone was willing to pay.”

Lando smiles to himself.

“That sounds exactly like him.”

She looks down at her glass.

“I don’t know if I’m ready.”

“To move?”

“To let go.”

The admission hangs softly between them.

“It feels strange.”

Lando reaches for her hand.

His thumb strokes slowly across her knuckles.

“If you end up buying Lewis’ place…”

He gives her hand a gentle squeeze.

“…You should do it because it feels like the start of something.”

Not because she’s running away from something else.

She looks up at him.

He hadn’t said the last sentence aloud.

He didn’t need to.

She heard it anyway.

A small smile tugs at the corner of her mouth.

“You know…”

“What?”

“I think that’s exactly what Lewis was trying to say.”

Lando smiles.

“Then I reckon he’s probably right.”

—

Lewis insists on meeting her himself.

“You’re not getting the estate agent version,” he’d said over the phone the day before. “I’ve lived there. I know what actually matters.”

So, just after lunch, Louise finds herself standing outside one of the quieter residential buildings in Fontvieille.

It’s one of those addresses everyone in Monaco knows without ever really noticing. No dramatic entrance. No gold lettering announcing itself to tourists. Just pale limestone, dark bronze-framed windows and discreet security that blends into the architecture instead of competing with it.

Exactly the sort of place people with something to protect preferred.

The lift requires a key before it moves.

Lewis taps a discreet fob against the reader.

“You’ve still got private lift access?”

“I told you.”

“I never completed the sale.”

The doors close.

Unlike Lando’s building, where every resident shares the same lift, this one travels directly upward without stopping.

No buttons.

No floors.

Just a quiet ascent.

Louise notices.

“So no one accidentally wanders past your front door.”

Lewis catches the direction of her thoughts immediately.

“Exactly.”

She hadn’t realised she’d been evaluating everything through that lens now.

Entrances.

Sightlines.

Security cameras.

Windows.

Whether someone could watch without being noticed.

It has become automatic.

She doesn’t know whether that’s temporary.

Or permanent.

The lift slows.

The doors slide open directly into the apartment.

No hallway.

No communal corridor.

Just…

Home.

Or what had once been someone else’s.

Lewis steps aside.

“Ladies first.”

She walks in slowly.

Not because she’s trying to be polite.

Because she’s taking everything in.

The first thing she notices isn’t the size.

It’s the light.

Soft winter sunlight spills across pale oak floors through enormous windows that stretch almost from floor to ceiling.

But unlike most Monaco penthouses—

The windows aren’t exposed.

The terrace is set back from the edge of the building, wrapped in mature olive trees, cypress and carefully landscaped greenery that creates natural privacy without feeling enclosed.

She walks instinctively toward them.

Outside, the harbour is visible beyond the trees.

Not framed like a postcard.

Filtered.

Hidden in places.

Revealed again.

As though someone had deliberately designed the apartment so you could enjoy Monaco without feeling like Monaco was looking back.

Lewis watches her expression change.

“I had those planted.”

She turns.

“The trees?”

“They were tiny when I bought the place.”

“They’ve grown.”

He smiles.

“They’re high enough now that the neighbouring terraces can’t really see in.”

She doesn’t answer immediately.

Instead she walks onto the terrace.

The city hums below.

Distant.

Contained.

She looks instinctively toward the surrounding buildings.

Angles.

Balconies.

Windows.

Nothing looks directly back.

Nothing.

Her shoulders lower before she consciously notices.

Lewis sees it.

He doesn’t mention it.

He leans his forearms against the stone.

“People think Monaco’s noisy.”

“It is.”

“But only if you live in the wrong place.”

She nods absentmindedly.

“I can hear birds.”

“They nest in those pines.”

She laughs quietly.

“I sound ridiculous.”

“No.”

“You sound like someone who’s looking for somewhere to breathe.”

The words settle gently between them.

After a moment, they head back inside.

Lewis gives her the sort of tour only someone who genuinely lived somewhere would.

Not square footage.

Not designer brands.

“This cupboard’s deeper than it looks.”

“The morning sun comes into the kitchen until about eleven.”

“The guest room gets colder than the rest because of the stone wall.”

“The extractor fan over the hob is louder than it should be.”

She smiles.

“You’re terrible at selling houses.”

“I’m trying to sell you a home.”

The apartment unfolds naturally around her.

A reading nook overlooking the trees.

A small office tucked away from the main living area.

Bedrooms that don’t immediately face neighbouring towers.

Bathrooms with frosted skylights instead of exposed windows.

Everywhere she turns—

Privacy.

Not isolation.

Just…

Protection.

She stops in the doorway of what had clearly been the main bedroom.

The room is empty now.

No furniture.

Just warm afternoon light crossing the wooden floor.

She walks to the window.

Again—

Trees.

Green.

Movement.

Not glass towers staring back.

Lewis doesn’t interrupt.

Eventually she speaks.

“…It feels peaceful.”

“It always was.”

She nods slowly.

Then, almost without thinking, she says the words out loud.

“I don’t feel watched here.”

The room falls quiet.

Lewis looks at her for a long second.

Not with pity.

Not with sadness.

Just understanding.

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

He offers her a small smile.

“I think people who’ve lived through certain things end up looking for the same qualities in a home.”

Louise looks back out at the trees swaying gently beyond the terrace.

For the first time since she’d walked into her own apartment and realized it no longer felt like hers, she isn’t mentally calculating escape routes.

She isn’t wondering who can see inside.

She isn’t imagining a telephoto lens somewhere in the distance.

Instead, she catches herself thinking something she hasn’t thought in weeks.

I could leave a book on that chair.

I could make tea here.

I could forget to close the blinds.

The thoughts are so ordinary they almost make her emotional.

Because ordinary is exactly what she’s been missing.

—

The paperwork takes less time than she’d expected.

Not because buying property in Monaco suddenly becomes simple.

It never does.

But because Lewis has already done most of the waiting over the last few years.

The valuations are current.

The inspections are recent.

The legal documentation is immaculate.

His lawyer jokes that it’s the smoothest property sale he’s handled in years.

A few evenings later, Lando is sprawled across the sofa with his laptop balanced on one knee, half watching qualifying highlights while replying to emails between adverts.

Louise wanders in from his office carrying her own laptop.

She looks oddly pleased with herself.

He notices immediately.

“You own a penthouse now.”

She groans.

“Don’t say it like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’ve become one of those Monaco people.”

He laughs.

“I hate to break it to you…”

She points a finger at him.

“Don’t.”

“…you’re becoming alarmingly sophisticated.”

She nudges him with her shoulder.

“So…”

He studies her.

“When are you moving?”

She shakes her head almost immediately.

“Not yet.”

“No?”

“There are a few things I want to change first.”

“I want it to feel like mine.”

“Not like I’m borrowing Lewis’ apartment.”

“That makes sense.”

She nods.

“I don’t want to unpack boxes into someone else’s house.”

“I want to make it home first.”

He reaches over, absentmindedly playing with the sleeve of her jumper.

“So…”

He says it lightly.

“…how long have I got before you abandon me?”

She looks at him as though the question is ridiculous.

“I’m not abandoning you.”

“You know what I mean.”

She smiles.

“I’m not in a rush.”

“No?”

“I quite like staying here.”

He looks at her.

“You do?”

“Mhm.”

“It’s nice.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“Just… nice?”

She smiles.

“I wake up next to you.”

“I don’t have to text you when I get home.”

Lando reaches for her hand.

“So…”

She intertwines their fingers.

“…if it’s alright with you…”

His laugh comes before she even finishes.

“You’re asking again?”

“I thought I’d be polite.”

“You’ve got to stop doing that.”

She grins.

“I like watching you get offended.”

He shakes his head, smiling despite himself.

“Stay as long as you want.”

“I was planning on it.”

“Good.”

He squeezes her hand.

“I quite like having you here too.”

—

The renovations finish on a quiet Friday.

Not dramatic enough to deserve a celebration.

No champagne.

No ribbon cutting.

Just one final walkthrough from the contractor, a folder full of warranties, and a text from Louise to Lando.

Done.

His reply arrives almost immediately.

Wait for me.

By the time Lando pulls into the underground garage a few hours later, the late afternoon sun is beginning to soften into evening.

Louise is already waiting by the private lift, keys twirling absentmindedly around one finger.

He steps out of the car.

“So?”

“So.”

“You’ve been in all day.”

“I have.”

“And?”

She grins.

“I’m not telling you.”

“Oh, come on.”

“You’ll see.”

He narrows his eyes suspiciously.

“I don’t like surprises.”

“You love surprises.”

“I like good surprises.”

“This is one.”

“We’ll see.”

She nudges him toward the lift.

“Stop complaining.”

“I haven’t even started.”

The lift hums upward.

Lando notices the new brass key fob dangling from her hand.

His eyes flick toward it.

“You’ve got proper homeowner keys now.”

“I do.”

“How grown-up.”

“It feels illegal.”

He laughs.

“I know exactly what you mean.”

The lift opens directly into the apartment.

The doors slide apart.

Lando steps out—

—and stops.

Because everything is unmistakably…

Louise.

The bones of the apartment haven’t changed.

The oak floors remain.

The kitchen is still exactly where Lewis left it.

The windows still frame the trees before the harbour beyond.

But the atmosphere has shifted.

The walls are warmer now, painted a soft limestone cream instead of stark white.

Eventually they drift toward the terrace.

The evening air is warm.

The olive trees planted years earlier have grown even fuller now, leaves shifting quietly in the breeze.

Monaco glows beyond them.

Visible.

But comfortably distant.

Lando leans against the stone balustrade.

“I love what you’ve done.”

She lets out a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding.

“You do?”

“It still feels like this place.”

“But now it feels like…”

He glances sideways at her.

“…your place.”

She smiles.

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

Silence settles between them.

Comfortable.

The sort that only exists between people who don’t feel the need to constantly fill it.

Lando watches a yacht ease slowly through the harbour.

“You know…”

He says eventually.

“I don’t think Lewis could’ve picked a better person to buy this.”

She smiles softly.

“I still can’t believe he trusted me with it.”

“He didn’t trust you with a flat.”

“He trusted you with a home.”

She nods.

“I think about that a lot.”

The breeze stirs a loose strand of hair across her face.

She tucks it behind her ear.

She looks around the terrace.

“…this doesn’t feel like replacing it.”

“It feels like…”

She pauses.

“…the next chapter.”

Lando nods slowly.

“I can see that.”

Another comfortable silence passes.

Then Louise speaks again.

“So…”

“Hm?”

“I’ve been thinking.”

He immediately smiles.

“I always worry when you start sentences like that.”

She rolls her eyes.

“We’ve got more space here.”

He blinks.

“We do.”

“Not just physically.”

He waits.

She turns toward him.

“The office doesn’t have to double as a guest room.”

“The spare bedroom can actually stay spare.”

“The dining table seats twelve.”

“The terrace’s big enough to have everyone over.”

She smiles.

“It feels…”

She searches for it.

“…like somewhere life can keep happening.”

He watches her carefully.

She isn’t talking about furniture anymore.

She looks back through the open doors into the apartment.

“…there’s room.”

“Room for what?”

She doesn’t answer immediately.

Instead, she walks back inside.

He follows.

She stops in the hallway, looking toward the second bedroom.

The one they’d left intentionally flexible.

Empty for now.

Not unfinished.

Just…

Waiting.

She smiles to herself.

“We have more space to grow here.”

The words are gentle.

Almost absent-minded.

As though she’d only just realised them herself.

Lando’s gaze follows hers.

The spare room.

The office.

The terrace.

The life she’d slowly built into every corner.

Then back to her.

He hears everything she isn’t saying.

Not children.

Not yet.

Not necessarily.

Just…

A future that no longer feels constrained by survival.

A home that had been chosen with tomorrow in mind instead of merely escaping yesterday.

He slips his hand into hers.

“I know.”

She looks at him.

“I didn’t buy this because I wanted a bigger apartment.”

“I know.”

“I bought it because…”

Her thumb brushes against his.

“…I wanted somewhere that wouldn’t ask us to stop becoming whoever we’re going to become.”

He smiles.

“I think…”

He glances once more around the apartment.

“…you found exactly that.”

She leans her head against his shoulder.

Outside, the olive trees sway gently in the evening breeze, shielding the terrace from curious eyes.

For the first time in a long while, the future doesn’t feel like something waiting beyond the walls.

It feels like something the walls themselves were quietly making room for.

[lostfireflie]

No Title - Small Mercies

Lando Norris x Louise Levine (Original Character)

Summary: Back in Monaco, life slowly starts resembling something familiar again—morning runs, shared breakfasts, quiet afternoons. But while they’re learning how to move forward in private, a conversation with Charlotte makes it clear that the next step can’t stay behind closed doors forever.

Word Count: 4.6k

Masterlist

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The flight south is almost unnervingly quiet.

Neither of them sleeps much.

Lando dozes for twenty minutes somewhere over the Channel before waking with the familiar disorientation that comes from sleeping upright. Louise spends most of the flight with noise-cancelling headphones over her ears, a book open on her lap that she never turns more than three pages of.

Neither feels particularly obligated to fill the silence.

They’ve spent the better part of a week talking.

To lawyers.

To team principals.

To communications departments.

To governing bodies.

To people who needed explanations.

Now, for the first time in days, no one needs anything from them.

The aircraft banks gently over the Côte d’Azur, sunlight breaking through scattered winter clouds. The Mediterranean appears beneath them in impossible shades of blue, stretching uninterrupted toward the horizon, while the coastline curves west toward Nice and east toward Monaco.

Louise looks out of the window.

Actually looks this time.

Not through it.

When the wheels finally touch down in Nice, she lets out a slow breath she doesn’t seem to realise she’s been holding.

—

By the time they’ve collected their luggage and slipped through the private exit, the cool Mediterranean air is waiting for them.

Different from England.

Softer.

Salt instead of rain.

Lando tosses their bags into the boot before sliding behind the wheel of the car waiting for her.

“You want to drive?” he asks.

Louise looks at him as though he’s lost his mind.

He grins.

She settles into the passenger seat instead, kicking off her trainers and tucking one foot beneath herself as he pulls out of the airport.

The motorway hugs the coastline before climbing toward Monaco, the sea flashing between rows of umbrella pines and pale stone villas. Sailboats drift lazily across the bay, tiny white marks against the blue water.

For several minutes neither of them speaks.

Not because anything is wrong.

Simply because they’re both watching the landscape change.

Eventually Lando reaches across the centre console until his hand finds hers.

She intertwines their fingers automatically.

“…You feeling any better?”

She knows exactly what he means.

Not physically.

Not after the flight.

After everything.

She takes her time answering.

“…A little.”

“A little?”

She nods, watching the coastline slide past outside.

“I’ve decided something.”

“Oh?”

“I’m choosing to unpack all of…” She gestures vaguely toward the windscreen, “…that,“ somehow encompassing the meetings, the headlines, the comments and the last week as a whole. “in therapy.”

He glances at her before returning his attention to the road.

“…That sounds significantly healthier than trying to solve it yourself.”

“It probably is.”

“You’ve upgraded.”

“I know.”

A smile ghosts across her face.

“I realised that if I keep trying to untangle it in my own head…”

She shrugs.

“…I’ll never stop.”

He nods.

Because she’s right.

Louise has always approached emotions like engineering problems.

Observe.

Understand.

Fix.

But grief doesn’t obey logic.

Neither does hurt.

“So,” she continues quietly, “I’m paying someone who’s actually qualified to help me sort through it.”

“I fully support this plan.”

“I thought you might.”

The silence returns, softer now.

The road begins to climb toward Monaco, winding above the coastline.

After another minute, Lando speaks again.

“Is there anything I can do?”

She turns to look at him.

“You already are.”

“I mean… anything extra.”

Anything that makes this easier.

She considers the question properly.

Then smiles.

“…Hug me more.”

He blinks.

“…That’s it?”

“And give me more kisses.”

One eyebrow rises.

“That’s the official prescription?”

She nods with complete seriousness.

“Doctor’s orders.”

He reaches across the centre console at the next red light, catching her wrist gently before tugging her toward him as far as the seatbelt allows.

“There.”

She laughs as she bumps lightly against his shoulder.

“Lando.”

“What?”

“You said hug me more.”

“I am.”

“You are operating a motor vehicle.”

“I am hugging responsibly.”

She snorts.

“I don’t think that’s a legal category.”

“It should be.”

The light changes.

He reluctantly lets her go just enough to steer properly.

“I can absolutely do more hugs.”

“And kisses?”

He looks genuinely offended.

“Louise.”

“What?”

“You say that like you’ve requested something difficult.”

She grins.

“I just wanted to make sure. I’ve been waiting all week for someone to prescribe unlimited affection.”

“You poor thing.”

“I know.”

“My suffering has been immense.”

She laughs again.

A real one this time.

Not small.

Not forced.

It catches him so unexpectedly that he can’t help smiling with her.

He thinks of what Max had said.

Tired people borrow silence until they have enough strength to become themselves again.

They drive the remaining few streets in companionable silence.

The familiar buildings begin appearing one after another.

The harbour.

The tunnel entrance.

The impossible stack of balconies overlooking the sea.

By the time he pulls into the garage beneath their building, neither of them moves immediately.

The engine clicks softly as it cools.

Lando unbuckles his seatbelt first.

“So.”

“So?”

He turns toward her with exaggerated seriousness.

“I’m beginning treatment immediately.”

She narrows her eyes.

“…Treatment.”

“Mhm.”

“For your highly specific medical requirements.”

Before she can ask what that means, he leans across the centre console, one hand cupping the side of her face as he kisses her.

Slowly.

Unhurried.

Not because he thinks kisses solve heartbreak.

Because sometimes they remind you that you don’t have to carry it alone.

When he finally pulls back, he presses another quick kiss against the tip of her nose.

“One.”

She laughs.

“You are counting?”

“I’ve been given measurable objectives.”

Another kiss.

“Two.”

“Lando…”

A third.

“Three.”

She reaches up, laughing harder now, trying unsuccessfully to push his face away.

“You’ve already exceeded today’s target.”

“Oh no.”

He catches both her hands in one of his.

“This is a long-term treatment plan.”

“What about the hugs?”

Without another word, he leans forward until he can wrap both arms around her awkwardly over the centre console.

It’s an objectively terrible hug.

Seatbelts abandoned at strange angles.

Gear selector digging into his ribs.

His shoulder trapped against the steering wheel.

She can barely breathe for laughing.

“This,” she says into his neck, “might be the worst hug you’ve ever given me.”

“It still counts.”

She doesn’t ask him to let go.

Instead, she melts into the awkward embrace anyway, smiling against the fabric of his jumper.

Outside, Monaco continues exactly as it always has.

Cars climb impossible hills.

Tourists wander the streets.

The harbour glitters beneath the afternoon sun.

Inside the garage, hidden from everyone else, they remain exactly where they are for another minute.

Not fixing everything.

Not pretending the week hadn’t happened.

Simply beginning, quietly and deliberately, to put themselves back together.

—

The lift begins its smooth ascent.

The doors slide shut.

He presses his floor.

Lando hooks both suitcases in one hand before stepping inside, Louise following close behind with her backpack slung over one shoulder.

The lift arrives with a familiar chime.

Louise leans lightly against the mirrored wall, eyes following the changing floor numbers overhead without really seeing them.

Lando scrolls absently through a handful of notifications he’d ignored during the drive before locking his phone again.

The doors open.

He grabs both suitcases.

“Come on.”

She follows him into the corridor without hesitation.

The familiar hallway is quiet, afternoon sunlight spilling through the windows at the far end. Somewhere downstairs, someone laughs on a balcony, the sound carried faintly upward with the sea breeze.

Lando unlocks the apartment.

The door swings inward.

Nothing has changed.

His trainers are still sitting crooked beside the entrance where he’d kicked them off before leaving for England. A hoodie is draped over the back of one of the dining chairs. The diffuser in the hallway still smells faintly of cedar and bergamot.

Home.

He drops the suitcases beside the wall with a relieved sigh.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy to see my own sofa.”

Louise smiles faintly.

“It missed you.”

He shrugs off his jacket, hanging it on the hook by the door before wandering straight into the kitchen.

“You want water?”

“Please.”

He fills two glasses while she slips off her trainers, padding barefoot across the wooden floor.

Everything feels strangely still.

Not empty.

Peaceful.

The kind of quiet that belongs to a place that’s been waiting for you.

She wanders toward the living room almost absentmindedly.

Beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, Monaco glows beneath the pale winter sun. The harbour shimmered in the distance, rooftops stacked along the hillside in warm shades of cream and terracotta.

Closer, though—

Trees.

Tall Mediterranean pines filled most of the view, their branches swaying gently in the breeze, breaking up the skyline and hiding much of the surrounding buildings.

She stands there for a long moment.

Just looking.

Lando returns with the glasses.

He notices the way she’s staring outside.

Not admiring the view.

Studying it.

He walks over quietly, offering her the water.

She accepts it without taking her eyes off the windows.

“You alright?”

She nods automatically.

A beat passes.

Then another.

“I don’t want to go back there.”

Lando looks up from where he’s absentmindedly unpacking chargers from his backpack.

“…Back where?”

“My apartment.”

The words come quietly.

Matter-of-fact.

She doesn’t look at him.

“I don’t feel safe there anymore.”

Lando stops what he’s doing.

Completely.

She lets out a slow breath.

“It all got turned into…”

She searches for a word that doesn’t seem to exist.

“…something else.”

She doesn’t say weaponized.

She doesn’t have to.

He understands anyway.

“It was supposed to be the one place nobody else got to have.”

Another silence settles between them.

Outside, a scooter buzzes somewhere down on the street before disappearing around the corner.

“I think…” she says eventually.

“…I’m going to sell it.”

That gets his full attention.

She laughs once through her nose.

“It annoys me.”

His eyebrows lift slightly.

“I love that apartment.”

She shakes her head.

“I love the location. The layout—do you know how hard it is to find something like that in Monaco?”

He smiles faintly despite himself. He’s heard this speech before—about light angles and airflow and how buildings over the water are aesthetic lies.

“Ain’t no way I’m moving into those glass towers over the water,” she adds, finally glancing at him. “They’re a tourist trap with an HOA.”

He snorts.

The room falls quiet.

“The trees here…”

He follows her gaze.

“They block almost everything.”

“I never realised how comforting that was.”

Lando crosses the room without saying anything.

“…Can I stay here?”

The question is almost swallowed by the room.

“Just until I figure out what I’m doing.”

He stares at her.

Not because he’s considering it.

Because he can’t quite believe she thinks she has to ask.

“…Are you seriously asking me?”

One shoulder lifts.

“I thought I’d be polite.”

He lets out a disbelieving breath, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh.

“Lou.”

he reaches for her, cupping her face in both hands.

His thumbs brush gently across her cheeks.

“Course you can.”

Something in her expression softens.

Not dramatically.

Just enough that he sees the weight she’d been carrying shift, if only slightly.

She leans forward until her forehead rests against his chest.

His arms settle around her without hesitation.

Lando rests his chin lightly against the top of her head.

“You don’t have to decide what happens to it today.”

She nods against him.

“Or tomorrow.”

Another nod.

“We’ll figure it out.”

—

The first morning back in Monaco begins before the sun properly rises.

Lando wakes without an alarm.

For a few disoriented seconds he isn’t entirely sure why.

Beside him, Louise is asleep on her stomach, one arm tucked beneath the pillow, the duvet gathered haphazardly around her waist. Sometime during the night she’d migrated across the mattress until half her body was pressed against his side, stealing almost all of his blanket in the process.

He smiles.

He brushes a few strands of hair away from her face as gently as he can.

She makes a small, unintelligible noise and buries herself deeper into the pillow.

Not awake.

Not even close.

“Stay asleep,” he murmurs.

She responds by stealing even more of his duvet.

Typical.

Lando carefully slides out from underneath her without waking her and quietly dresses in running shorts, a sweatshirt and trainers before slipping out of the apartment.

Monaco at seven in the morning belongs to locals.

The harbour is almost peaceful, yachts still asleep beneath soft gold light. Delivery vans occupy streets usually clogged with Ferraris, cafés are only beginning to drag tables onto terraces, and the sea carries the faint scent of salt and fresh bread from bakeries already hours into their morning.

Lando runs without headphones.

He hasn’t wanted them lately.

His route is familiar enough that his legs know where to go before his mind catches up, carrying him down toward Port Hercule before climbing back through quieter residential streets lined with umbrella pines and flowering balconies.

Running has never really been about fitness.

Not entirely.

It gives his thoughts somewhere to go.

By the time he reaches the bakery a few streets from the apartment, sweat has begun cooling against his back.

The little bell above the door jingles as he steps inside.

Warm air immediately replaces the crisp morning chill.

Butter.

Coffee.

Fresh pastries.

The familiar smell wraps around him almost instantly.

“Bonjour, Lando.”

Madame Rousseau looks up from arranging croissants behind the glass display with the same smile she’d worn every weekend he’d wandered in over the last seven years.

“Morning.”

“The usual?”

He nods.

“And…” He glances over the display.

“…one pain au raisin?”

He laughs.

“How do you always know?”

“Because you've been coming here forever.”

Before he can answer, the bell above the door rings again.

“Morning.”

Lando turns.

Oscar stands there in running gear remarkably similar to his own, hair flattened from a cap he’d clearly just pulled off.

“…You’re copying me.”

Lando raises an eyebrow.

“I’ve lived here longer than you.”

Oscar shrugs.

“The bakery’s good.”

Madame Rousseau sighs dramatically.

“You Formula One boys are impossible.”

Oscar grins.

She waves them away before turning back to the till.

Oscar orders a coffee and two croissants before leaning against the counter beside him.

“You look less dead.”

“I feel less dead.”

“Barely.”

Lando nods.

“Barely.”

Oscar studies him for a second.

Not intrusive.

Just checking.

“…Everything alright?”

It isn’t a media question.

It’s a friend asking.

Lando appreciates the distinction.

“We’re getting there.”

Oscar nods once.

“Good.”

No unnecessary sympathy.

No probing.

Just acceptance.

It’s one of the things Lando likes most about him.

Madame Rousseau slides a paper bag across the counter before disappearing briefly into the kitchen.

When she returns, she’s holding another pastry wrapped separately.

“This one,” she says, handing it directly to Lando, “is for Louise.”

He looks down.

“…The almond and raspberry?”

“She always looks at them before pretending she’ll order something sensible.”

Lando laughs.

“That sounds exactly like her.”

Madame Rousseau smiles.

“And she has had a difficult week.”

His smile softens.

“She’ll appreciate it.”

“Tell her,” the older woman says, brushing invisible flour from her apron, “that she doesn’t have to pretend to be cheerful next time she comes in.”

The words catch him slightly off guard.

“I’ll tell her.”

“And tell her I expect to see her again.”

He nods.

“I will.”

Outside, Oscar glances sideways as they walk back toward the street.

“…People have been asking after her.”

“The bakery?”

“The flower shop.”

“The guy who owns the wine place.”

“The woman with the dogs.”

Lando blinks.

Oscar shrugs.

“Turns out people notice when someone had a rough week.”

He hadn’t realised.

Neither, he suspects, had Louise.

—

By the time Lando lets himself back into the apartment, the silence inside feels different from the silence they’d left behind the day before.

Not heavy.

Resting.

He kicks off his trainers by the door, balancing the paper bag against his hip while quietly locking the apartment behind him.

The coffee machine hums to life.

He pours two glasses of water.

Sets out plates.

The domestic ritual settles him more than he expects.

The bedroom door remains half-open.

He peeks inside.

Louise hasn’t moved much.

She’s somehow stolen all of the pillows now.

He leans against the frame.

“Lou.”

A sleepy noise.

“Louise.”

One eye opens.

“…What time is it?”

“Breakfast.”

She squints.

“That’s not a time.”

“It is in this apartment.”

She groans dramatically before pulling the duvet over her head.

“I’m asleep.”

“No, you’re negotiating.”

“I’m successfully asleep.”

He walks over, sitting carefully on the edge of the bed.

“I’ve brought incentives.”

Nothing.

“The lady from the bakery sent you your favourite croissant.”

The duvet shifts.

Slowly.

One eye appears again.

“…She what?”

“I bumped into Oscar.”

“Mhm.”

“And Madame Rousseau said you’ve had a difficult week.”

Louise blinks.

“So…”

“…she sent you an almond and raspberry croissant.”

Silence.

Then—

“…She remembered?”

Lando smiles.

“Apparently you spend five minutes staring at them every visit before ordering something healthier.”

“…That’s really sweet.”

—

The afternoon settles into something approaching normal.

Lando disappears into his office for meetings with engineers, simulator notes and a seemingly endless stream of emails that had accumulated during the previous week.

Louise claims the living room.

Her laptop, notebook and iPad gradually spread across the coffee table in the organized chaos Charlotte always insisted wasn’t actually organized.

The familiar rhythm of work returns.

Emails.

Schedules.

Contracts.

Phone calls.

By lunchtime they’ve only spoken intermittently, drifting into each other’s spaces for coffee refills and stolen kisses before disappearing back into their respective corners.

It feels wonderfully ordinary.

Just after two, Louise’s iPad lights up.

Charlotte.

FaceTime.

She answers almost immediately.

“Hi.”

Charlotte’s face appears on screen from what looks like the London office, a half-empty coffee beside her and three colour-coded calendars visible on the wall behind.

“Hello, stranger.”

Louise smiles.

“I’ve just answered your e-mail.”

“I know.” Charlotte smiles back. “This time I’m calling because I wanted to, not because somebody somewhere was threatening legal action.”

“…That’s actually refreshing.”

“It really is.”

For the next twenty minutes the conversation stays comfortably ordinary.

Charlotte asks how Monaco feels.

Whether Louise slept.

Whether therapy had confirmed her appointment for later that week.

They drift through postponed campaigns, Olympic sponsorship obligations, the latest version of Louise’s training calendar and the steadily growing mountain of unanswered emails sitting in her inbox.

“You’ve got sixty-three unread.”

“I know.”

“When are you planning on opening them?”

Louise considers it with exaggerated seriousness.

“…August?”

Charlotte pinches the bridge of her nose.

“Louise.”

“I’m easing back into society.”

Charlotte sighs theatrically.

“I somehow forgot how exhausting you are.”

“I’m actually being incredibly pleasant today.”

“So far.”

Another beat passes.

Charlotte glances briefly away from the camera toward something on her desk before looking back.

“Is Lando around?”

Louise follows her gaze instinctively toward the hallway.

“He should be.”

“Could you grab him for me?”

Louise tilts her head.

“Everything okay?”

Charlotte’s expression softens immediately.

“It’s nothing bad.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

She pauses.

“I just need to talk to both of you.”

Louise nods before slipping off the sofa.

“Lando?”

His office door opens almost immediately.

“Yeah?”

“Charlotte wants you.”

He appears a moment later, eyebrows already raised.

“…Should I be worried?”

“No,” Charlotte answers before either of them can speculate further. “Sit down.”

Lando settles onto the opposite end of the sofa, stretching one arm across the backrest behind Louise.

“What have we done now?”

“You?” Charlotte says dryly. “Nothing.”

She looks between them.

“But I need to tell you something you’re both probably not going to enjoy hearing.”

The mood shifts almost imperceptibly.

Neither of them argues.

They already know.

“You can’t wait this out.”

The words land quietly.

Heavier because she doesn’t dramatize them.

Lando frowns.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean exactly that.”

Charlotte’s voice stays measured.

“This story isn’t going away because you’re ignoring it.”

“I know that’s what you’d both prefer.”

“It is,” Louise admits.

“I know.”

Charlotte nods.

“I would too.”

She gestures toward the closed laptop.

“But the media won’t.”

“They’ve already proven that.”

“From now on, every interview either of you gives is going to begin with the exact same questions.”

She starts counting them off on her fingers.

“‘Why did you hide it?’”

“‘When did it start?’”

“‘Were you together during…?’”

“‘Are you living together?’”

She lets her hand fall.

“They’re going to ask because if they don’t, someone else will.”

Silence stretches between them.

“The Formula One season starts in a few weeks.”

She looks at Lando.

“You’re going to be standing in front of microphones every race weekend.”

Then Louise.

“And you’re heading into the Olympics.”

“Sponsor days.”

“Press conferences.”

“Media pens.”

“Feature interviews.”

“The questions aren’t stopping.”

Lando rubs the back of his neck.

“We already addressed it.”

“You addressed the blackmail,” Charlotte corrects gently.

“You explained why you posted.”

She taps the laptop.

“You haven’t addressed the story.”

Louise frowns.

“They’re the same thing.”

“No.”

Charlotte shakes her head.

“They’re connected.”

“But they’re not the same.”

She chooses her words carefully.

“Yesterday people were talking about what happened to you.”

She taps the article again.

“Today they’re talking about who you are.”

“And if you don’t tell that story…”

She lets the sentence hang.

“The media will.”

Nobody says anything.

Charlotte’s expression softens.

“I hate saying this.”

“You know I do.”

She looks at Louise first.

“I spent two years helping you protect this.”

Then Lando.

“And I know exactly why you kept it yours.”

A tired smile appears.

“If you’d asked me six months ago what to do…”

“I would’ve told you to keep doing exactly what you were doing.”

The smile fades.

“But we’re not living in that version anymore.”

“You’re two of the most recognisable people in your industries.”

She says it without embellishment.

“Neither of you chose this.”

“It isn’t fair.”

“It isn’t right.”

“But pretending it isn’t happening isn’t a strategy.”

“It’s surrendering authorship.”

She leans forward slightly.

“If you don’t establish boundaries now…”

“…journalists will keep looking for them.”

“They’ll ask a little more.”

“Then someone else will ask a little further.”

“And eventually somebody crosses a line because nobody actually knows where the line is.”

Lando looks up.

“So what are you want us to do?”

“I’m suggesting people hear from the two of you.”

“Properly.”

“Not through headlines.”

“Not in thirty-second answers walking to a paddock.”

“Something long-form.”

“Something where you decide what you’re willing to share.”

“So…”

They both look at her.

“I can make a TikTok telling everyone to stop being so bloody nosy?”

For half a second there’s silence.

Then Lando bursts out laughing.

Not a polite chuckle.

A full laugh that makes him lean back against the sofa.

Charlotte closes her eyes.

“…Louise.”

“What?”

“No TikToks.”

“I’d keep it under a minute.”

“Louise.”

“I could even add subtitles.”

“Louise.”

She looks entirely innocent.

“I was thinking educational.”

Charlotte points a warning finger at the screen.

“I am formally advising against posting a passive-aggressive TikTok.”

“I wasn’t going for passive.”

Lando laughs harder.

Charlotte sighs toward the ceiling.

“I don’t know why I expected him to help.”

“I’m helping,” Lando manages between laughs.

“You’re encouraging her.”

“She’s funny.”

“She’s a PR nightmare.”

“I’m sitting right here,” Louise says.

Charlotte shakes her head, smiling now.

“Unfortunately, as satisfying as that might be…”

“It wouldn’t solve the problem.”

Louise’s smile fades into something more thoughtful.

“I know.”

Charlotte and Lando start pacing ideas out loud—formats, tone, audience overlap. Louise listens, gaze drifting to the window, the harbor flashing white in the sun.

“A magazine?” Lando asks.

Charlotte makes a face.

“Depends who’s asking.”

“A documentary?”

She laughs.

“Absolutely not.”

“I’m brainstorming.”

“I appreciate the effort.”

Louisee watches the trees beyond the glass sway gently in the afternoon breeze.

Quiet settles over the room again.

Then she looks back toward the screen.

“I think I know how we can do it.”

—

The outreach happens fast.

Too fast.

Charlotte barely has time to hit send before Lando’s phone begins vibrating across the kitchen island.

Incoming FaceTime

Travis Kelce

“My dude.” Travis doesn’t even bother with hello. “You really had Charlotte send us a formal email?”

Lando laughs.

“Apparently that’s how professionals communicate.”

“Nah.” Travis shakes his head. “You know we’d have said yes to a text that read, ‘u free lol’ with half the words misspelled.”

“I figured Charlotte preferred punctuation.”

“I appreciate punctuation.”

“But not from you two.”

His grin softens.

“The answer was always yes.”

“You didn’t have to ask.”

For a moment neither of them says anything.

Then Travis adds, quieter this time,

“…we’ve got you.”

Lando feels something in his chest loosen.

“…Thanks, mate.”

Not even ten minutes later, Louise’s phone lights up.

FaceTime

Kylie Kelce

She smiles before answering.

“Hi.”

“Hello you,”

Kylie is sitting cross-legged on her sofa in an oversized sweatshirt, her hair twisted into a loose bun that looks like it’d been thrown together sometime that morning.

“I figured I’d call before my husband and brother-in-law started turning this into a travelling circus.”

Louise laughs quietly.

“…That’s thoughtful.”

“I like to think so.”

Kylie smiles.

“I just wanted to say we’re really happy to do this.”

“No caveats.”

“No conditions.”

“And I promise…”

She lowers her voice conspiratorially.

“…I’ll do my absolute best to keep Travis and Jason from getting too carried away.”

Louise’s smile widens.

“…That’s exactly why I wanted you there.”

Kylie laughs.

—

A script is written.

Carefully. Thoughtfully. Approved by legal, PR, management, sanity.

Bullet points. Boundaries. Words to avoid.

They read it once.

They read it twice.

By the time the cameras turn on, it might as well not exist.

Before They Press Record

PHILADELPHIA — Jason & Kylie’s place

Jason is already wearing the headphones wrong. One ear on, one ear dangling. He taps the mic twice, too hard.

Jason: Is this—am I loud? I feel loud.

Kylie: You’re always loud. That’s not the mic.

She adjusts her own headset, effortlessly competent. The dog barks somewhere off-screen.

Kylie (calling out): If anyone hears heavy breathing, it’s Jason, not a production issue.

Jason grins, gives a thumbs-up to no one in particular.

KANSAS — Travis & Taylor

Travis leans too close to the camera, face filling the frame.

Travis: Why do I look like that.

Taylor (deadpan, reaching over): Because you’re six foot five and this camera is on a stack of books.

She nudges the laptop higher, then checks her mic levels with a soft hello? hello? like she’s soundchecking a stadium.

Travis: Okay but like—be honest—do I sound podcast-sexy?

Taylor: You sound like yourself.

Travis: So yes.

MONACO — Louise & Lando

Lando is already seated, headset on, foot bouncing. The chair next to him is empty.

Travis: There they… Wait. Where is she?

Lando glances off-screen. Then again.

He leans toward the mic, lowers his voice instinctively.

Lando (whispering): She’s looking for the right fidget toy. (beat) She’s scared. She won’t admit it.

From off-screen, immediately:

Louise: I AM NOT SCARED.

She appears, holding approximately three different objects—her stress ring, one smooth stone, one stress ball—evaluating them like tools before a mission.

She drops into the chair beside him.

Louise: I’m just thinking ahead to the fact that I’ll be sitting here for God knows how long waiting for Travis to finish a sentence.

Travis (from Kansas, offended): First of all—rude. Second of all—accurate.

Everyone laughs. The kind that releases tension instead of creating it.

Lando reaches over under the desk, squeezes Louise’s knee once. Anchoring. Quiet.

She exhales, barely noticeable unless you’re watching closely.

—

Kylie: Alright—are we ready?

Jason: Wait, wait, wait—where’s my— (realizes) Never mind. I don’t need water. Hydration is a mindset.

Louise: Wait—I need water.

She looks around, genuinely confused, like it’s vanished into thin air.

Lando doesn’t say anything. Just reaches down, pulls it from beside his chair, hands it to her.

Lando: Here.

Louise: Thanks.

She takes a sip. Another. Grounds herself.

She nods once.

Louise: Okay. You can start.

[lostfireflie]

No Title - Interlude

On Ice

Summary: After days of lawyers, headlines and impossible questions, Lando wonders if “normal” is something they’ll ever get back. An afternoon with his nieces turns into an unexpected reminder that joy hasn’t gone anywhere—it was just waiting for them to find it again.

Word Count: 4.2k

Masterlist

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Before they even made it to the front door, it already felt strange.

Not because there was anything particularly difficult about putting on heels instead of slippers, or because Louise had forgotten how to leave the house. It was because, somewhere over the last few days, home had quietly become the only place where neither of them had to explain themselves.

Every trip outside since the statement had carried an obligation.

Lawyers.

PR consultants.

Team principals.

Sponsors.

Conference rooms with expensive coffee and carefully measured words.

Conversations where everyone insisted they were on their side before asking another exhausting question.

Every outing had become another reminder that what had once belonged solely to them had somehow become public property.

So the simple act of Louise pulling on comfortable shoes while Lando searched for his car keys carried an odd sense of unfamiliarity.

She stood in front of the hallway mirror, adjusting the sleeves of an oversized cream jumper she’d stolen from his wardrobe months ago and had never formally returned. The jeans were comfortable, her hair pulled into a loose braid that rested over one shoulder. No racing team logos. No designer outfit. No attempt to look polished.

Just Louise.

Just enough.

Lando watched her from where he leaned against the kitchen island, keys dangling loosely from one finger.

“You sure?” he asked carefully.

She looked over.

“About…?”

“Going.”

He shrugged one shoulder.

“We don’t have to.”

It wasn’t really about going.

It was about cameras.

About people recognising them.

About someone inevitably filming them buying popcorn and posting it with a caption analysing whether she looked sad enough.

Louise held his eyes for a second before smiling—small, genuine.

“I think,” she said, grabbing her coat from the hook, “there are significantly worse ways to improve my mood.”

He waited.

“Than spending an afternoon watching Disney princesses skate around a rink while two tiny dictators tell us exactly what we’re allowed to do.”

He laughed.

“Absolutely.”

“What better cure than Disney On Ice and two little girls who’ve got us completely wrapped around their fingers?”

He walked over, resting a hand against her waist.

“They’re going to bankrupt me today.”

“They’re definitely going to bankrupt you today.”

“And you’ll encourage them.”

“I’ll pretend to stop them.”

“You won’t.”

“I won’t.”

His forehead rested briefly against hers.

“You look lighter today.”

Her smile softened.

“I feel…” She searched for the word.

“…less stuck.”

Not better.

Not fixed.

Just…

Like she could breathe without every inhale scraping against her ribs.

That was enough.

—

Lando barely has time to switch the engine off before both girls are already pressed against the front window waving so enthusiastically they nearly fell over each other.

The front door flies open.

“UNCLE LANDO!”

“LOUISE!”

Two tiny rockets launch themselves across the driveway.

Lando barely catches the eldest before she barrels into him.

Louise drops into a crouch just in time for the younger one to wrap herself around her with complete confidence.

“There you are.”

“I missed you.”

Tiny arms immediately wrapped around her neck.

“I missed you too.”

“No…” the little girl says very seriously, tightening her arms.

“I missed you more.”

Louise laughs.

“Did you?”

“So much.”

Louise kissed the side of her head.

“So dramatic.”

“I missed you anyway.”

“You’ve inherited that from your uncle.”

Lando gasped.

“I’ll have you know I’m incredibly emotionally regulated.”

The older niece looked directly at him.

“No.”

Louise burst into laughter.

Oliver appears in the doorway carrying approximately half the children’s belongings. “I don’t know why they’ve packed three costume changes.”

“We might need them,” the eldest explains.

“For what?”

She shrugs.

“You never know.”

The youngest had already settled comfortably on Louise’s hip like she’d never intended to walk another step in her life.

“You know,” Louise told her.

“You do actually have legs.”

“They’re tired.”

“You’ve been standing still.”

“They’re still tired.”

Lando reached over.

“My turn?”

A tiny head buried itself dramatically into Louise’s shoulder.

“No.”

“I see.”

“I want Louise.”

“You’ve been replaced,” his brother said far too happily.

“I carried her for like…three years.”

“And now it’s my turn.”

The little girl nodded decisively.

“Yep.”

Lando sighed dramatically.

“I’ve become financially responsible but emotionally obsolete.”

—

Getting everyone into Lando’s car proves… complicated.

Much more complicated.

Lando had expected clipping in two child seats to take five minutes.

Instead—

“Why doesn’t this one reach?”

Oliver groans from inside the back seat.

“Because you’ve twisted the anchor.”

“I haven’t.”

“You absolutely have.”

“I don’t think I—”

“Lando.”

“…Yeah?”

“It’s upside down.”

“…Right.”

Five minutes later.

“It still won’t click.”

“It clicks.”

“It literally isn’t.”

Oliver reaches across.

“No, because you’re trying to buckle the left strap into the right lock.”

“…There are sides?”

Oliver simply stares.

Louise is sitting on the driveway trying very hard not to laugh while both girls provide entirely unhelpful commentary.

“Daddy you did it faster!”

“Uncle Lando’s confused.”

“I’m not confused.”

“You look confused.”

Twenty minutes later…

“It clicked!”

Lando announces triumphantly.

Oliver looks over.

“…That’s the seatbelt.”

“Oh.”

Another fifteen minutes disappear.

Eventually—

Both seats are finally secure.

Lando steps back dramatically.

“I’ve conquered modern engineering.”

Oliver snorts.

“You drive Formula One cars.”

“Those are easier.”

“I believe you.”

Louise is openly laughing now.

The girls clap anyway.

“Yaaay Uncle Lan!”

He bows.

—

The drive becomes chaos almost immediately.

Disney playlist.

Frozen.

Then Moana.

Then Encanto.

Louise discovers Lando knows almost every lyric.

She looks over suspiciously.

“You know all of this.”

“I don’t.”

“You literally just harmonised.”

“… I’ve watched them… Once… Because of them.”

The girls scream from the back.

“He loooves Frozen!”

“I knew it.”

Lando sighs dramatically.

“Betrayal.”

—

By the time they reach the entrance reserved for hospitality guests, excitement has reached impossible levels.

Everything sparkles.

Children everywhere wear princess dresses.

Tiny Buzz Lightyears run between parents.

The youngest still hadn’t left Louise’s arms.

Not once.

Even when Lando offered.

“No.”

“I like here.”

Louise bounced her slightly.

“My arms are going to fall off.”

“I’ll help.”

“How?”

“I’ll kiss them better.”

“…that’s actually very sweet.”

“I know.”

Lando looked at them.

“I don’t remember ever getting that treatment.”

“You complain too much.”

“Unbelievable.”

The oldest girl bounced ahead, one hand wrapped tightly around Lando’s as she all but dragged him through the concourse.

“Slow down,” he laughed, nearly stumbling after her. “You’ve got tiny legs. How are you this fast?”

“I can see it!”

“See what—”

He followed her gaze.

The merchandise stand.

It was enormous.

Every shelf glittered beneath the arena lights.

Rows of Mickey ears in every imaginable color. Princess tiaras studded with plastic jewels. Bubble wands that blinked in impossible shades of pink and blue. Plush toys stacked higher than the girls themselves. Plastic swords, light-up necklaces, blankets, backpacks, sequined jackets—

Lando stopped walking.

“…Oh, no.”

“What?” Louise asked, although the grin already pulling at her lips suggested she knew exactly what.

He pointed silently.

She looked.

“Oh.”

The oldest had already let go of his hand.

“I NEED THAT!”

The youngest, still balanced comfortably on Louise’s hip, followed her sister’s finger.

“I NEED THAT TOO!”

Lando pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Here we go…”

Ten minutes later, the girls skipped happily back toward their suite as if Christmas had come early.

The oldest proudly wore glittering Minnie ears, one hand wrapped around Louise’s while she enthusiastically waved her new bubble wand, leaving a trail of floating bubbles behind them.

The youngest rode comfortably on Louise’s hip, matching Minnie ears slightly crooked on her head as she rested against Louise’s shoulder, comparing their identical bubble wands every few seconds.

“We’re matching,” she announced for what had to be the tenth time.

“We are,” Louise laughed, gently knocking her wand against the little girl’s.

A few steps behind them, Lando trudged along beneath what looked suspiciously like the entire contents of the Disney merchandise stand.

Oversized shopping bags hung from both arms, stuffed with plush toys, colouring books, blankets, light-up necklaces and enough souvenirs to keep the girls entertained until they graduated university.

—

Their suite overlooks almost the entire arena.

Floor-to-ceiling glass at the back, four oversized armchairs, a plush sofa positioned directly behind the front row of seats, drinks already waiting in an ice bucket and enough snacks to feed a small village.

The girls don’t care.

They’re already pressed against the glass barrier, hands flat against it as they stare down at the rink below.

“It’s HUGE!”

“I can see the castle!”

“LOOK!”

Lando chuckled as he wandered over beside them, pointing out where the performers would skate from while the older niece bombarded him with questions faster than he could answer them.

Louise hung back for a moment, smiling to herself before settling onto the sofa with a quiet sigh, finally setting her handbag beside her.

She had barely leaned back when she felt small hands on her arm.

Without asking, without hesitation, the youngest niece climbed straight into her lap as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

Louise laughed softly, instinctively wrapping an arm around her waist to steady her.

That seemed to settle the matter entirely.

The little girl shifted until she was tucked comfortably against Louise’s side, curling one leg beneath herself before reaching for Louise’s hand with both of hers, absentmindedly tracing circles across her knuckles while they watched the arena slowly fill below.

After a while, the youngest tilted her head back to look up at Louise.

“Louise?”

“Hm?”

“You tired?”

Louise blinked.

“No… why?”

The little girl frowned thoughtfully, studying her face with an intensity that only children ever seemed capable of.

“You’re more quiet.”

Louise smiled.

“I am?”

A small nod.

“You smile different.”

Something in her chest tightened.

“Oh?”

“You still smile.”

Tiny fingers squeezed her hand.

“But your eyes look sleepy.”

For a second, Louise couldn’t find an answer.

Children noticed things adults politely pretended not to.

They didn’t have words like burnout, or grief, or emotional exhaustion. They couldn’t explain why someone felt different.

They simply knew.

She’d spent days insisting she was okay.

To Charlotte.

To her dad.

To her team.

To Lando, more often than she should have.

And somehow the first person to see straight through it was a little girl who still believed princesses were real.

Louise swallowed gently before brushing a strand of hair behind the child’s ear.

“I’ve just had a busy few days.”

The little girl considered that answer with complete seriousness.

Then, without another word, she scooted higher until she could wrap both arms around Louise’s middle in the biggest hug her tiny body could manage.

“I’m gonna help.”

Louise let out the smallest laugh, already feeling her eyes sting.

“Oh, yeah?”

A determined nod.

“And how are you going to do that?”

The answer came immediately.

The little girl squeezed tighter.

“There.”

Louise laughed again.

“…Better?”

“…Yeah.”

“A little?”

Louise looked down at the tiny arms wrapped stubbornly around her waist.

Then back at the little girl.

“…A lot.”

Apparently satisfied with her work, the little girl rested her cheek against Louise’s chest with a contented sigh, still holding onto her as though letting go had never been part of the plan.

Louise kissed the top of her head.

Maybe children couldn’t fix everything.

But sometimes, they reminded you that you didn’t have to carry everything by yourself.

—

Across the suite, Lando glanced over his shoulder just in time to catch the whole exchange.

He narrowed his eyes dramatically.

“Excuse me.”

The little girl looked over.

“Yes?”

“I was under the impression,” Lando continued with complete seriousness, “that Louise was my girlfriend.”

The little girl nodded.

“She is.”

“Excellent. So…” He spread his hands. “Can I sit with my girlfriend now?”

She considered the question for all of two seconds.

“No.”

Lando blinked.

“…No?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

The answer came as though it were painfully obvious.

“Because I’m sitting here.”

“Right, but…” He gestured toward the rest of the enormous suite. “There are lots of seats.”

“I like this one.”

“That’s my seat.”

“It doesn't have your name.”

Louise pressed her lips together, trying very hard not to smile.

Lando pointed accusingly at her.

“Are you hearing this?”

“I’m remaining impartial.”

The youngest simply snuggled closer against Louise’s side, as though to prove she had absolutely no intention of moving.

Lando placed a hand over his chest.

“Can we at least share?”

Another shake of the head.

Louise finally lost the battle against her laughter, ducking her head as it escaped in a soft, helpless laugh.

Lando looked between the two of them in disbelief.

“Lou.”

She glanced up innocently.

“Hm?”

“You’re supposed to be on my side.”

The oldest niece, who had been quietly watching the entire exchange unfold, looked up from the glass overlooking the rink.

“Uncle Lando…”

“Yes?”

“Stop being jealous.”

Louise laughed outright.

Lando stared at his nieces for a long beat before letting out an exaggerated sigh of defeat.

“Fine.”

He dropped into the armchair opposite them with all the theatrics of a man who’d just lost a championship by one point.

“Just know that I’ll remember this betrayal.”

The youngest finally looked at him again, smiling sweetly.

“You can have her tomorrow.”

Lando’s eyebrows shot up.

“Tomorrow?”

She nodded generously.

“Today she’s with me.”

Louise looked down at the little girl, whose expression was so earnest she clearly believed she was negotiating a perfectly fair custody agreement, and felt her heart melt.

Across from them, Lando caught Louise’s eye and couldn’t stop the grin tugging at his lips.

—

The arena slowly darkened.

Conversations melted into a low murmur, thousands of excited voices blending together until the first notes of the opening music echoed through the speakers.

The lights went out.

A collective gasp rippled through the crowd.

Then the castle at the centre of the ice lit up.

“It’s starting,” the oldest whispered, though she was vibrating with excitement.

The youngest reached instinctively for Louise’s hand, squeezing it so tightly Louise thought she might lose feeling in her fingers.

A spotlight swept across the rink.

Mickey and Minnie skated out first.

The girls’ reaction was immediate.

“Oh my gosh!”

The youngest bounced so enthusiastically on Louise’s lap that Louise had to wrap an arm around her middle to stop her from launching herself over the glass.

Lando laughed, unable to take his eyes off them.

Every entrance was met with another chorus of delighted gasps.

Every costume change was somehow prettier than the last.

Every familiar song had one—or both—of the girls singing along without a hint of embarrassment.

Louise found herself smiling almost constantly.

—

Halfway through the show, the opening piano notes of Let It Go floated through the arena.

The oldest niece gasped dramatically.

“It’s Elsa!”

She was already on her feet before Elsa had even skated into view.

Then she turned to Lando.

“Uncle Lan.”

“…yeah?”

“You have to dance.”

His eyebrows shot up.

“I do?”

“Everyone dances.”

“I don’t think everyone—”

She grabbed both his hands.

“Come on.”

Around them, dozens of children were already standing, twirling beside their parents.

Lando looked at Louise with the expression of a man searching desperately for rescue.

She smiled sweetly.

“No, no.”

“You heard her. You have to.”

By the chorus, he’d given up pretending to have dignity, dramatically singing along with exaggerated arm movements that had both girls doubled over with laughter.

She looked across at Lando.

He caught her eye from across the row, still wearing glowing Mickey ears he’d been talked into buying for himself after the girls insisted “everyone has to match.”

He looked ridiculous.

Completely ridiculous.

He noticed her staring.

“What?”

“You look very handsome.”

“I know you’re making fun of me.”

He grinned anyway.

For the first time in weeks, the smile reached his eyes without effort.

—

Later, as the show shifted into a faster medley, the performers encouraged the audience to get involved.

Lights flashed across the arena.

Music filled every corner.

Children all around them were already dancing in the aisles.

The oldest didn’t even bother asking this time.

She simply grabbed one of Lando’s hands.

The youngest slid off Louise’s lap to take the other.

“C’mon!”

Lando grinned.

The four of them moved to the front of the suite.

Around the arena, families are already dancing.

Parents spinning toddlers.

Grandparents clapping.

Teenagers pretending they aren’t enjoying themselves.

Lando looks at Louise.

She looks back.

He sighs.

“We’re really doing this.”

“We’re really doing this.”

A beat.

Then he shrugs.

“Well…”

He offers her his hand with exaggerated formality.

“May I have this dance?”

She laughs, slipping her fingers into his.

“You may.”

The girls erupt into cheers.

For the next few minutes, there is absolutely no dignity left to preserve.

They sway.

They clap.

They spin the girls until all four of them are laughing too hard to stay coordinated.

The youngest insists Louise wave her bubble wand “like a fairy.”

Lando copied the choreography from the skaters with spectacularly little success, somehow making even the simplest movements look unnecessarily complicated.

Louise laughs so hard she nearly doubles over watching him attempt a graceful twirl that looks suspiciously like avoiding a loose wheel nut in the pit lane.

She watches him deliberately exaggerate every movement until both girls collapse into giggles.

Her heart feels impossibly full.

Around them, bubbles drifted through the air, children laughed loud enough to drown out the music, and for a few perfect minutes, nothing existed beyond flashing lights, Disney songs and four people dancing together without the slightest concern for who might be watching.

Lando caught Louise’s eye as the girls spun between them, both of them laughing too hard to speak.

He thought, not for the first time that day, that happiness really could be this simple.

—

The finale arrived in a burst of colour.

Fireworks bloomed across the castle, fountains of sparks chasing one another around the ice as every character returned for one final lap. The music swelled until it filled every corner of the arena, thousands of children cheering loud enough to rival the speakers themselves.

The oldest niece was still standing at the glass.

Long after the audience around her had started sitting back down, she remained gently swaying from side to side, bubble wand clutched in one hand, humming the last song under her breath as though she wasn’t quite ready for the magic to end.

Louise smiled at the sight before sinking back into the sofa beside Lando.

“I’m not sure she’s blinked for two hours.”

“I don’t think she has.”

They watched her together, her Minnie ears sitting slightly crooked after an evening of enthusiastic dancing.

A small weight suddenly leaned against Louise’s side.

The younger niece, cheeks flushed pink from spinning in endless circles, climbed back onto Louise’s lap with the slow determination of someone who had officially run out of energy.

“Tired?” Louise whispered.

She nodded sleepily.

“But happy.”

She curled up without another word, tucking her legs beneath herself before resting her head against Louise’s chest. One small hand still held onto the now silent bubble wand while the other instinctively found Louise’s sleeve, fingers curling around the soft fabric.

“I loved today.”

Louise swallowed.

“So did I.”

Lando glanced over and smiled.

“Well…”

He nodded toward the sleepy little girl.

“I think we’ve officially reached the battery-saving mode.”

Louise brushed a few loose curls away from the child’s face.

“I think so too.”

The music softened as the cast took one final bow, every skater spreading out across the ice beneath a shower of glittering confetti.

The oldest niece applauded so enthusiastically that her hands echoed around the suite.

For a long moment, neither Lando nor Louise said anything.

They simply sat together, watching the performers wave goodbye, Louise gently rocking the sleepy child without even realizing she was doing it.

Lando reached across the sofa until his hand found Louise’s free one, intertwining their fingers.

She looked over.

He was already looking at her.

Quietly smiling.

The kind of smile that didn’t need words.

She returned it just as the arena lights slowly brightened, signaling that the evening had come to an end.

Neither of them seemed in any hurry to leave.

The world outside hadn’t become any kinder.

The headlines were still there.

The opinions still existed.

Questions about her career would still be waiting tomorrow.

But joy, she’d discovered, hadn’t disappeared.

It had simply been waiting patiently for them inside an ice rink, hidden between Disney songs, overpriced toys, sticky popcorn fingers, and two little girls who loved them so fiercely that, for three wonderful hours, nothing else managed to matter.

—

The drive back was considerably quieter.

Not because anyone was tired of talking.

Simply because the day had finally caught up with them.

The oldest chatted almost the entire way home, recounting every favourite moment as though neither Lando nor Louise had been sitting beside her when it happened.

The youngest, meanwhile, had fallen asleep before they’d even left the arena car park.

Her Minnie ears had slipped sideways, one tiny hand still wrapped around the bubble wand she’d refused to let go of, her head tipped against Louise’s shoulder after insisting she wanted to ride “just for a little bit” before getting into her own seat.

It had taken several minutes—and a great deal of negotiating—to convince her that car seats were, unfortunately, not optional.

Now she slept so soundly that she barely stirred when they finally pulled into the driveway.

Lando carried her inside while Louise gathered the growing collection of Disney bags, jackets and forgotten snacks.

Their goodbyes were sleepy and sticky with hugs.

The oldest hugged Louise first.

“Can we go again?”

Louise laughed.

“I think we’ll have to wait until next year.”

“…Promise?”

She looked at Lando.

He smiled.

“We promise.”

Only then did the little girl seem satisfied enough to disappear inside, already talking excitedly to her parents about Mickey, Elsa, bubbles and how Lando “couldn’t dance.”

The motorway was quiet on the drive home.

Dark enough that the streetlights stretched into long golden ribbons across the windscreen, the radio humming softly in the background more for company than entertainment.

For the first few miles neither of them spoke.

Louise had kicked her shoes off, one foot tucked beneath her as she looked out at the passing lights.

Lando rested one hand loosely on the steering wheel, the other finding hers across the centre console almost without thinking.

Their fingers intertwined automatically.

Eventually, Louise broke the silence.

“I’m really glad we went.”

Lando smiled without taking his eyes off the road.

“Me too.”

“I wasn’t sure what to expect.”

“I wasn’t either.”

She let out a quiet laugh.

“I forgot how easy it is to just… have fun.”

He nodded slowly.

“So did I.”

He squeezed her hand gently.

“It felt normal.”

“It did.”

“And I missed normal.”

Louise looked out of the window again.

“I think I missed laughing without feeling guilty.”

His expression softened.

“You laughed a lot today.”

She smiled to herself.

“I know. So did you.”

Another comfortable silence settled between them.

Not awkward.

Just peaceful.

After a while, Lando spoke again, quieter this time.

“You know…”

“Hm?”

“I think we’re going to be okay.”

She turned to look at him.

He was still watching the road, but there was a certainty in his voice that hadn’t been there in weeks.

“The last week…” he exhaled. “It felt like it would never end.”

“It did.”

“But today…”

He shrugged lightly.

“It reminded me that our life is still our life.”

The world had changed around them.

People knew now.

There would always be cameras.

Always be speculation.

Always be strangers convinced they knew them.

But today had belonged entirely to the four of them.

No headlines.

No statements.

No explanations.

Just two little girls convinced their uncle couldn’t dance and that matching bubble wands were a necessity.

Louise rested her head lightly against the seat, her thumb brushing over the back of his hand.

“We’re going to have days like this again.”

He glanced at her.

“You think?”

“I know.”

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“I like it when you’re confident.”

“I don’t always have to be.”

“No.”

“But I am about this.”

She looked down at their joined hands.

“We’ve survived the worst part.”

Lando nodded.

“And we didn’t do it alone.”

“No.”

She looked back up at him.

“We never have.”

He lifted their joined hands just enough to kiss the back of hers before settling them back onto the centre console.

Outside, the motorway stretched ahead into the night.

Inside, the car was warm, quiet, and filled with the lingering smell of popcorn and sugar.

For the first time in what felt like forever, neither of them was thinking about what waited tomorrow.

Tonight, that was enough.

[lostfireflie]

No Title - Diligence

Lando Norris x Louise Levine (Original Character)

Summary: Some choices don’t end when they’re made—they echo. As friends rally around them, difficult conversations begin behind closed doors, and the outside world refuses to move on, Lando and Louise find themselves learning what it means to protect their peace when everyone else has an opinion.

Word Count: 8.9k

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 I’ll add you to it!

The drivers’ group chat has survived wars. Rules changes that made no sense. Steward decisions. that made less sense. Track limit arguments that should be classified as endurance events. At least four mass exits followed by immediate re-entries.

What it has never survived with dignity is gossip. So when the statement goes live, nothing happens at first. Which, in that chat, is deafening. Then—

George Russell: Can we stop pretending we haven’t all seen it or are we committing to the lie forever?

The typing bubbles erupt instantly.

Max Verstappen: Thank god. I was running out of fake confusion.

Charles Leclerc: WAIT so this is official official?

Carlos Sainz: I KNEW IT.

Alex Albon: You say that about everyone.

Carlos Sainz: Statistically, I had to be right eventually.

Lando tilts the phone toward Louise so she can see. She watches silently, amused, eyes flicking across the screen like she’s observing wildlife.

Then—

Lewis Hamilton: About time you two stopped sneaking around.

Lando exhales a laugh. “Oh, great. Dad’s here.”

Oscar Piastri: You two are terrible at hiding.

Lando Norris: I resent that.

Pierre Gasly: Welcome to the chaos.

Esteban Ocon: Blink twice if you need help.

Louise leans over, reading faster now.

Alex Albon: Question

Lando Norris: No.

Alex Albon: I haven’t asked it yet.

Lewis Hamilton: Ask it. He’ll survive.

Alex Albon: Does her dog like you?

Louise snorts.

“Stop.”

Lando types before she can stop him.

Lando Norris: Yes. The dog likes me more than she likes half of you.

Max Verstappen: That’s the real endorsement.

George Russell: Honestly that’s the only one that matters.

Louise shakes her head, smiling despite herself. “They’re unbearable.”

“You love it.”

“I tolerate it.”

Then—

Carlos Sainz: Another question.

Lando stiffens a little. Louise feels it instantly.

She reaches over, taps the phone. “Give it to me.”

“Carefull there...”

She presses the voice note button before he can argue.

The room goes quiet except for the faint hum of the phone recording.

Her voice, when it plays back, is calm. Dry. Undeniably hers.

“Hi guys. It’s Louise.

No more questions, don't even think about asking for a PowerPoint– I'm talking about you George, stop typing. And if you keep pushing, I will retaliate. Don't forget I know all of your girlfriends and wifes, and I've spent enough time between wine glasses with them to know way more than I should about you all so…

We’re happy. We’re fine. Everyone’s alive.

Enjoy your evening. Byee.”

She lets go of the button and hands the phone back like she’s just submitted evidence. Lando stares at her, impressed. Slightly afraid.

The reactions are immediate.

Franco Colapinto: ICON.

Liam Lawson: She’s terrifying.

George Russell: HEY—

Charles Leclerc: I think the PowerPoint was a reasonable request.

Checo Perez: “Everyone’s alive” is doing a lot of work there.

Max Verstappen: I respect the efficiency.

Oscar Piastri: Do we… do we say thank you or sorry?

Another message pops up before Lando can even scroll.

Carlos Sainz: sorry—

The typing bubble appears.

Louise leans over and taps the screen before Lando can stop her, typing one-handed with surgical precision.

Lando (but unmistakably her): George I said stop.

The typing bubble vanishes.

Silence.

A beat.

Then—

Kimi Antonelli: She’s scary. I like her.

Gabriel Bortoleto: I understand everything now.

Valteri Bottas: That was the most efficient shutdown I’ve ever witnessed.

Lewis Hamilton: Good boundaries. Proud of you both.

Lando feels something in his chest ease at that.

Max Verstappen: So… wedding when?

Lando Norris: MAX.

Louise laughs, finally, leaning back against his shoulder. “They’re never going to let you breathe.”

Alex Albon: I just want it noted that I supported this emotionally from day one.

Pierre Gasly: You asked them if they were dating in the middle of the drivers parade.

Alex Albon: Support comes in many forms.

He slips an arm around her, pulls her closer. “Worth it.”

On the screen, one last message pops up.

Fernando Alonso: Take care of each other. The rest is noise.

The chat doesn’t slow down. It spirals. It memes. Someone else adds a ring emoji next to Lando’s name. Someone suggests a betting pool on who found out first.

Lando locks the phone and sets it face-down. Inside the room, it’s quiet again. For approximately 3 seconds.

Her phone buzzes next. She opens it.

Max Verstappen:

So

Lando?

Really?

Louise exhales a quiet laugh through her nose, tilting the phone just enough that Lando can see.

“Oh, no,” he mutters, already sinking deeper into the couch. “Don’t engage.”

She doesn’t listen. Her thumbs hover for half a second before she starts typing.

Louise: hi max

The reply comes almost immediately.

Max Verstappen: you could do better

Lando lets out an offended noise, sharp and immediate. “Excuse me?”

Louise doesn’t even look up. “Relax.”

Max Verstappen: blink twice if you need extraction

Louise smiles, small and amused.

Louise: tone down the drama

Max Verstappen: I live for drama, this is disappointing so far

Lando leans closer, chin nearly brushing her shoulder. “Tell him he’s obsessed with me.”

“I’m not fueling that.”

“You already are.”

A pause. Then—

Max Verstappen: are you okay?

It lands differently.

Louise’s smile softens—not gone, just quieter. She shifts slightly against Lando, like she’s grounding herself without thinking about it.

Her thumb hovers.

Louise: yeah

The reply is instant this time.

Max Verstappen: yeah but how okay

A beat.

Max Verstappen: because you said yes to dating Lando. I mean…

Lando makes a noise somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. “Oh, come on.”

Louise’s mouth presses into a thin line, trying to fight back a smile.

Max keeps going.

Max Verstappen: that’s a big decision. questionable one

Lando exhales sharply. “I’m right here.”

“I know,” she murmurs, absent, still reading.

Max Verstappen: so I’m asking properly, are you actually okay?

The room shifts again, just slightly. The humor doesn’t disappear, but it makes space for something steadier. Real. Louise leans back a fraction, her shoulder settling more fully into Lando’s chest. His arm adjusts around her automatically, hand resting more securely at her side now.

She types slower this time.

Louise: I’m good, max

Max Verstappen: ok

A beat.

Max Verstappen: then I guess I’ll tolerate him

Lando groans immediately. “Tolerate—? I don’t need his approval.”

Louise lets out a quiet laugh, the tension easing out of her shoulders.

She types one last reply.

Louise: that’s very generous of you. It's not like you two haven't been friends for years

Max Verstappen: I know

Max Verstappen: still think you could do better though

She locks the phone before Lando can react, dropping it onto the cushion beside her like it no longer exists.

“Hey—”

“No,” she says simply, already settling back into him.

Lando exhales, dramatic but soft around the edges. His hand finds hers, fingers threading together like muscle memory.

“Unbelievable.”

Lando’s grip tightens around her hand, just once—subtle, grounding.

“You happy right?” he asks, quieter now.

Louise doesn’t answer immediately. She looks toward the window, where their reflection blurs into one shape against the dark glass.

Then she leans back into him, easy, certain.

“Yeah,” she says.

⸻

In the first twenty-four hours after their relationship became public. The internet is loud. Their house isn’t. The phones stay mostly ignored.

Meals are cooked. Laundry gets folded. Akira insists on three walks instead of two because she has no concept of global media cycles.

Life reasserts itself. Slowly. Carefully.

Lando wakes first, though only just, the bedroom still washed in the soft grey light of a rainy morning. For a long moment he simply lies there, listening. Rain tapping steadily against the windows. Akira snoring at the foot of the bed with all the dramatic enthusiasm of a dog who had somehow exhausted herself by sleeping through the night. Louise’s breathing, slow and even beside him.

Nothing sounds different. Nothing sounds like the world has changed.

When she stirs a few minutes later, blinking sleep from her eyes before instinctively reaching for him beneath the duvet, it feels almost absurd that somewhere outside their apartment strangers are arguing over the shape of a relationship they’d quietly lived for years.

“Morning,” she mumbles into his shoulder.

“Morning.”

He kisses the top of her head.

By the time they make it downstairs, Akira has decided the day is already well underway and makes her opinion known by planting herself squarely in front of the pantry, staring pointedly between the cupboard door and whichever one of them looks weakest.

“You already had breakfast,” Louise reminds her.

Akira blinks. Unmoved. Lando crouches beside her.

“She’s got a point.”

“No, she doesn’t.”

“I don’t know… she looks pretty convincing.”

The dog lets out one perfectly timed huff. Louise points an accusing finger.

“Don’t encourage her.”

“I’m not.”

“You absolutely are.”

“I merely respect a strong negotiator.”

Akira receives exactly one extra biscuit. Louise watches the betrayal unfold with narrowed eyes.

“You are the reason she’s like this.”

“I think you’ll find she’s an independent woman who makes her own choices.”

“She committed extortion.”

“It worked, didn’t it?”

Akira trots away, biscuit proudly clamped between her teeth, convinced justice has once again prevailed.

Breakfast becomes something slow enough to feel intentional. Eggs. Toast. Coffee. Fruit that Louise insists they should probably eat before it goes bad. The television stays off. Neither of them reaches for their phones beyond answering the people who matter.

Lando replies to a message from his mum.

We’re okay. Promise.

Love you too.

His father sends a thumbs up followed by a reminder that the family group chat is currently impossible to keep up with.

Louise smiles at a voice note from her dad that somehow spends three minutes discussing absolutely everything except the headlines before ending with, “Love you, sweetheart. Ring me later.”

Louise disappears into the reading nook overlooking the garden, curled beneath a blanket with a novel she’d started weeks ago but never quite found the time to finish. Akira claims the space across her feet with complete confidence that neither of them has any immediate plans involving movement.

Every now and then Louise reaches down absentmindedly, fingers disappearing into warm black fur without ever looking away from the page.

Lando takes over the dining table, laptop open, finally working through a stack of sponsor emails that had politely waited while the rest of his life had not.

Every so often one of them breaks the quiet.

“What do you think happens next?” Louise asks without looking up.

He pauses over his keyboard.

“I don’t know.”

She hums.

“I think…”

He waits.

“…I think maybe this is just what it is now.”

He turns to look at her. She still hasn’t lifted her eyes from the book.

“The noise stays outside,” she says quietly. “We stay in here.”

It sounds hopeful. Careful. Like someone testing the strength of ice before putting their full weight on it.

Lando watches the rain streak lazily down the glass doors.

Maybe she’s right. Maybe yesterday had been the hardest part. Maybe people would lose interest. Maybe, after the first explosion, life simply settled into a new shape. Smaller. Quieter. Manageable.

His phone lights up on the table. Lando glances at his phone only because it vibrates against the oak dining table hard enough to rattle his coffee mug.

Charlotte.

Don’t read anything.

He frowns. That isn’t particularly unusual. It had been her advice since the statement went live.

He types back.

Wasn’t planning to.

Before he can lock the screen again, another notification appears.

I’m coming over.

Nothing else. No explanation. No phone call. No urgency written into the words themselves. Charlotte never wastes words. Which means every one of them matters.

Lando looks across the room.

Louise has already closed her book.

“What happened?”

“I don’t know.”

“You asked?”

“I don’t think she’d answer over text.”

Neither of them reaches for social media. The silence between the messages says enough. Whatever it is— it’s bigger than yesterday.

—

She’s there less than an hour later. She doesn’t sit immediately. She studies both of them first. Checks for fractures. Finds tiredness. Not panic.

Good.

“Coffee?” Louise asks automatically.

Charlotte blinks.

“…Please.”

It’s such an absurdly normal exchange that all three of them almost smile. Almost.

“You didn’t look?”

Lando shakes his head.

“No.”

“Lou?”

“No.”

“Good.” She nods once. “I’m glad.”

Only then does she reach into her bag.The laptop appears first. Then her glasses. Then a legal pad already covered in handwriting.

“I’ll start with the good news.”

Neither of them had expected there to be any.

“The photographs never made it online.” A pause. “Legally…” She exhales. “…that’s very good.”

Lando feels some of the tension leave his shoulders before he even realizes he’d been holding it there.

“They published a reconstruction.” She pauses. “Even though they never published the images themselves, the article relied on material that was unlawfully obtained.” She taps the corner of her notebook. “Legal team moved immediately.— The article has already been taken down.”

A flicker of relief passes between Lando and Louise.

Charlotte sees it. Then gently shakes her head.

“But that’s not the end of it.”

The relief fades almost as quickly as it came.

“The article itself is gone.” A pause. “The conversation isn’t.”

“So…” His voice is quieter now. “…taking it down didn’t actually stop anything.”

She doesn’t try to soften it.

“It stopped the publication from continuing to profit from it. It established the legal position. And it matters.” She lets that sit for a moment. “But once something reaches the internet…” She glances at the endless stream of reposts. “…people become the publishers.”

Silence settles over the room. Charlotte closes the laptop halfway.

“We can remove the source.” Her eyes meet theirs. “We can’t make thousands of people forget what they already saw.”

⸻

THE SECRET TIMELINE: HOW LANDO NORRIS AND LOUISE LEVINE KEPT A TWO-YEAR RELATIONSHIP HIDDEN IN PLAIN SIGHT

By Entertainment Desk

When Formula One driver Lando Norris and Louise Levine confirmed their relationship yesterday through a joint statement requesting privacy, many believed they had just learned about one of motorsport’s newest couples.

Our investigation suggests otherwise.

After reviewing publicly available photographs, archived paparazzi images, eyewitness accounts, travel records, and additional materials obtained during our reporting, a different picture emerges—one of a relationship that appears to have developed quietly over nearly three years while remaining largely unnoticed by the public.

Some of the materials reviewed by this publication have not previously appeared in the public domain. While they will not be published out of respect for the couple’s privacy, they have helped establish a broader chronology of events alongside publicly available information.

Mid 2025 — London

One of the earliest moments identified during our investigation dates back to the autumn of 2025.

Previously unpublished photographs reviewed by this publication appear to show Norris dropping Levine outside a luxury hotel in central London following an evening together. At the time, neither their identities nor the significance of the encounter attracted public attention.

With hindsight, the images may represent one of the earliest documented moments of the relationship.

Late 2025 — Private Dining in Mayfair

Several weeks later, the pair were reportedly seen at an upscale restaurant in Mayfair before dining in a privately reserved section.

Staff members at the time believed the booking was related to a private business engagement after the entire restaurant had been reserved under a third party.

Sources familiar with the evening now suggest it was, in fact, a private dinner between the two.

December 2025 — Abu Dhabi

Among the previously unpublished images reviewed during this investigation are photographs appearing to show Norris and Levine playing golf together ahead of the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix.

The pair were alone at the time, spending the afternoon at Yas Links Golf Club, a course with restricted access located within the residential development where Levine owns an apartment.

December 2025 — New York City

Just days before Christmas, the pair were spotted shopping together in lower Manhattan.

Rather than visiting luxury boutiques along Fifth Avenue, the two spent the afternoon moving through a number of smaller independent stores, attracting little attention beyond a handful of fan photographs kept private at the time.

2026 — Monaco

Throughout 2026, a recurring pattern begins to emerge.

Publicly available photographs, fan sightings and eyewitness accounts repeatedly place Norris and Levine entering and leaving the same residential building in Monaco—sometimes together, sometimes only minutes apart.

At the time, these encounters were largely dismissed, as both were known to own apartments in the building.

It now appears they may have been sharing considerably more than an address.

Families Become Part of the Picture

Restaurant sightings between late 2025 and throughout 2026 and 2027 regularly placed Norris alongside members of the Levine family, while separate occasions saw Levine dining with Norris’ parents and siblings.

Individually, none of these appearances attracted significant attention.

Collectively, they suggest two families who had become increasingly familiar with one another long before the relationship became public.

Inside the Monaco Residence

Among the most compelling materials reviewed during this investigation are a series of unpublished photographs taken inside the residential building where Levine lives in Monaco.

The images will not be published.

However, they reportedly show the pair greeting one another with an embrace and kiss before returning to the apartment together, reinforcing the conclusion that the relationship had become well established by this stage.

Travelling Together

From mid-2025 onwards, Norris and Levine were frequently observed travelling together.

Multiple airport sightings place the Formula One driver boarding and disembarking Levine’s private aircraft on several occasions. Although the pair often travelled alongside friends, family members or other Formula One personnel, numerous journeys also placed them together without the wider group.

Individually, these trips appeared routine. Viewed together, they contribute to an increasingly consistent timeline.

Hiding—Or Simply Living?

Perhaps the most surprising conclusion is not that Norris and Levine kept their relationship private.

It is how ordinarily they appear to have lived it.

Contrary to the carefully orchestrated secrecy often associated with high-profile celebrity couples, there is little evidence the pair actively disguised their time together.

Instead, they continued travelling, dining out, spending time with family, walking through airports, returning home, and moving through everyday life with little apparent concern about being seen.

Only after assembling the timeline does the full picture emerge. For nearly two years, one of Formula One’s most closely followed relationships was not hidden behind disguises or elaborate deception.

It was unfolding, almost unnoticed, in plain sight.

—

The internet moved the way it always did. Not in one direction. In hundreds.

The article already sat at the top of trending topics, screenshots spreading faster than a wildfire.

The first reaction wasn’t outrage over the relationship. It was discomfort.

“They’ve been collecting this for years?”

“This is actually insane.”

“Imagine finding out strangers have been building a timeline of your life since 2025.”

“This isn’t journalism. It’s surveillance.”

“They literally asked for privacy yesterday.”

“So they refused to be blackmailed, announced their relationship themselves, and less than twenty-four hours later someone publishes an investigation into every date they’ve had for three years? That’s vile.”

One viral post amassed nearly half a million likes.

"I genuinely don’t understand what they did wrong. They weren’t lying. They just… didn’t tell us. That’s called having a private life."

Others pointed out something almost absurd about the article. None of the moments themselves were revelations. People had seen them before. The dinners. The Monaco sightings.

Many photographs had existed for months—sometimes years. The internet simply hadn’t cared enough to connect them. Now, placed beside one another, ordinary moments suddenly looked like evidence.

“Didn’t we already know they were neighbors?”

“Everyone knew their families knew each other.”

“We’ve watched them leave paddocks together for like two seasons.”

Another discussion emerged almost immediately. Not about privacy. About celebrity.

“When did people become entitled to know everything?”

“If they were kissing in restaurants every weekend I’d understand, but literally every example is just them existing.”

“Going to dinner isn’t public property.”

“Walking into your own apartment shouldn’t become content.”

Even people who admitted they disliked Norris found themselves defending him.

“Not a Lando fan but this crossed a line.”

“You can criticize his driving all day. Following someone home is different.”

“Love them or hate them, everyone deserves somewhere the cameras stop.”

The post spread beyond Formula One entirely. Actors. Musicians. Athletes. Several shared variations of the same sentiment. The relationship wasn’t the story. The surveillance was.

Then, inevitably— The discourse shifted.

A headline appeared from another outlet.

WHEN DID THE RELATIONSHIP BEGIN? TIMELINE RAISES QUESTIONS ABOUT McLAREN ROLES

That was enough.

Unlike the entertainment piece, this wasn’t interested in romance. It was interested in optics.

If the reconstructed timeline proved accurate, then Norris and Levine had allegedly begun seeing each other during the latter half of 2025.

At the time, Louise had been serving as one of McLaren’s development drivers.

By 2026, she had secured a full-time Formula One seat in Red Bull, competing directly against Norris.

The article stopped short of alleging wrongdoing. Instead, it posed questions.

Were McLaren executives aware?

Did the team have internal policies regarding relationships between drivers?

Could confidential technical information have been compromised?

Was there a conflict of interest while Louise remained affiliated with the organization?

The speculation spread quickly.

“Wait… wasn’t she still with McLaren then?”

“This feels like a conflict.”

“Did Zak know?”

“Could she have had access to information?”

Others pushed back just as forcefully.

“Development drivers aren’t making decisions for race weekends.”

“She literally left McLaren before racing against them.”

“Stop acting like they were swapping CAD files over dinner.”

One motorsport journalist wrote a lengthy thread.

There is a significant difference between the appearance of a conflict and evidence of one. At present, there is no indication any sporting or contractual regulations were breached. Formula One has had relationships between drivers, engineers, mechanics, team personnel and competitors before. If there were concerns from McLaren or the FIA, those concerns would involve internal governance—not internet speculation.

The thread circulated almost as widely as the original article.

Then former paddock personnel began weighing in. Anonymous mechanics. Engineers. Communications staff. None confirmed the relationship directly. Instead, they described how Formula One actually functioned.

“People date in the paddock all the time.”

“Drivers have married journalists.”

“Engineers marry mechanics.”

“People move between rival teams every season.”

“You sign NDAs. You don’t stop being a human being.”

One former team coordinator summed it up in a sentence that ended up quoted everywhere.

Being someone’s partner doesn’t exempt you from your contract.

Still, the questions lingered. Not because anyone had evidence. Because the internet had found a new mystery.

⸻

Charlotte lets the silence breathe. Not because she enjoys delivering bad news. Because she’s learned that people only absorb so much at once. When neither of them speaks, she reaches over and closes the laptop completely.

“You don’t need to read any of it.”

Lando frowns slightly.

“Are we better off not knowing?”

Charlotte answers without hesitation. “Yes.” She folds her hands together over the legal pad. “You already know enough.” She chooses her words carefully, stripping away the sensationalism until only the facts remain.

Charlotte watches them both. “They don’t know your relationship. They know a version of it. You don’t need to carry every opinion people have formed.” She glances briefly toward Louise. “And I especially don’t want either of you trying to correct strangers on the internet. You cannot win that game.”

Louise lets out a slow breath.

“Okay.”

Charlotte nods once, almost imperceptibly. “Good.” She reaches for the legal pad instead. “Now…” Her voice shifts. Not colder. Simply more practical. “There are some conversations we do need to have.” She flips to the next page. “The teams have already contacted us.”

Lando exchanges a look with Louise.

“McLaren first.” She looks between them. “They’ve asked to meet with both of you.”

Lando’s brows knit together.

“They think we did something?”

“No.” The answer comes quickly. “Quite the opposite.” Charlotte leans back slightly. “I spoke with them before coming here. They’re not investigating you. They’re protecting themselves. And you.” She lets that distinction settle. “The article has generated questions externally. They need to be able to answer those questions with confidence. They’re just doing their due diligence.”

Lando nods slowly.

“So… paperwork.”

“Essentially.”

He looks relieved. Charlotte notices.

“I wouldn’t expect it to be adversarial. It won’t feel pleasant. But it shouldn’t feel hostile.” She turns another page. “After that…” Her eyes settle on Louise. “You’ve been asked to meet with Red Bull.”

Louise’s shoulders stiffen almost imperceptibly.

“And Aston Martin.”

The room grows quieter.

Lando looks immediately toward her.

“Both?”

“Red Bull because that’s where you moved after McLaren.” Charlotte nods. “Aston because you’re there now. They’re all asking slightly different questions. But they all have the same objective... To demonstrate that there was never any conflict of interest.”

Louise is quiet for several seconds. Long enough that Charlotte doesn’t interrupt. Finally—

“I know why they have to.”

Charlotte softens.

“I know.”

“It’s just…” Louise searches for the words. “…tiring.”

Not angry. Not defeated. Simply tired.

Charlotte nods.

“It is.” She doesn’t pretend otherwise. “It will feel repetitive.”

Lando reaches across the table without thinking, resting his hand over Louise’s. She turns it over automatically, their fingers threading together.

Charlotte watches the gesture for a moment before continuing.

“I also want you both to remember something.”

They look back at her.

“These meetings aren’t happening because anyone believes you’ve done something wrong. They’re happening because everyone knows people are going to ask. And organizations need documented answers.”

She looks directly at Louise.

“You’re not walking into courtrooms. You’re walking into rooms full of people trying to make sure no one else gets to rewrite your careers.”

Louise nods slowly.

“I know.”

Charlotte believes her.

But she also sees the exhaustion already settling behind her eyes.

⸻

The McLaren Technology Centre looks exactly as it always has. Glass stretching toward an overcast sky. Steel catching the pale winter light. Perfectly trimmed lawns that somehow never seem to grow.

Employees walking briskly through the atrium with coffees balanced in one hand and laptops tucked beneath the other, conversations flowing around engineering updates, simulator schedules and race preparations as though the outside world hasn’t spent the last forty-eight hours dissecting the private lives of two people now walking through the front doors.

The familiarity is almost cruel.

Lando has spent enough years crossing this lobby that his body knows the route before his brain catches up. Reception smiles at him. Someone from marketing waves from the café. An engineer he recognizes from the simulator calls out a cheerful “Morning,” completely unaware that he’s arriving for one of the strangest meetings of his career.

Beside him, Louise walks at her usual pace. Measured. Composed. If someone didn’t know her, they would think she was completely unaffected.

Lando knows better.

She’s wearing the navy trousers she reserves for meetings she expects to require precision. The same jacket she wore to contract negotiations. Hair tied back tightly enough that not a single strand has escaped. Every choice intentional. Every detail another layer of armour.

Without thinking, he brushes the back of his hand against hers as they walk.

She doesn’t look at him. She simply hooks her little finger around his for half a second before letting go again. Enough to remind herself he is there.

—

Zak is already waiting outside one of the conference rooms.

“I’m sorry we’re meeting under these circumstances.” His handshake is firm. “I’d rather this conversation didn’t have to happen.”

“So would we,” Lando answers honestly.

Around the table sit other people. Legal. Human Resources. Compliance. Another representative from governance. Enough people that the room carries weight. Not enough to feel like an interrogation.

Coffee has already been poured. Someone has thoughtfully provided pastries that nobody touches. Once everyone settles, the lawyer nearest the end of the table folds his hands together.

“I’d like to begin by making something explicitly clear.”

His eyes move directly to Louise.

“This meeting is not disciplinary.”

She nods once.

“We have no evidence of misconduct.”

Another pause.

“We have no concerns regarding sporting integrity.”

Another.

“We have no indication that confidential information was improperly accessed, disclosed or shared.”

His voice remains measured.

“We’re documenting facts. Nothing more.”

Louise offers the smallest professional smile.

“We understand.”

She sounds exactly like she always sounds in meetings. Calm. Collected. Prepared. Only Lando notices her hands. Folded neatly together on the table. She hasn’t uncrossed her fingers once.

The questions begin exactly where everyone expected they would.

“When did your relationship become romantic?”

“Had you disclosed it to anyone internally?”

“Were you involved in decisions concerning Lando’s engineering programme?”

“Commercial activity?”

“Contract negotiations?”

The lawyer writes steadily.

“Were information barriers maintained?”

“Were they ever breached?”

Each answer lasts only seconds. Each answer represents months of systems, boundaries and professionalism nobody outside these walls had ever needed to think about until strangers decided there must be another explanation for her career.

Lando watches her answer questions she’s already answered a dozen different ways throughout her career.

Not because anyone here doubts her. Because documentation matters. Because companies survive on records. Because headlines have consequences.

Forty-five minutes pass almost without anyone noticing. Eventually, notebooks close. Pens are capped.

The lawyer smiles warmly.

“I appreciate your cooperation.”

Then Zak leans forward, forearms resting on the table.

“For what it’s worth…” He searches briefly for the right words. “We never expected this meeting to uncover anything.”

Louise finally raises her eyes fully to meet his.

“I know.”

A quiet settles over the room.

Zak waits.

“And?”

She lets out a slow breath.

“And that’s what makes it exhausting.”

Nobody interrupts. Nobody argues. Not because it’s dramatic. Because it’s true.

Zak lowers his eyes briefly. The compliance officer closes his notebook a little more gently than before. No one has a response that wouldn’t sound hollow.

—

Red Bull headquarters feels different. Sharper. Faster. Less familiar now than it once had.

Laurent is waiting before she’s even reached the meeting room. He looks genuinely uncomfortable.

“I hate asking these questions.”

“I know.”

“But if someone asks us at the beginning of the season… We need answers. We need documentation. We need to protect you.”

Louise nods.

“I understand.”

She does. That almost makes it harder.

The questions are almost identical. Reporting structures. Development responsibilities. Access permissions. Engineering groups. Compartmentalisation.

She explains, again, how Formula One teams already function through layers of restricted information. How a development driver doesn’t simply wander through departments collecting sensitive data. How competitive programmes remain isolated by design.

At the end someone thanks her for her professionalism.She thanks them for theirs.The conversation ends exactly as politely as it began. Outside the meeting room, she barely makes it halfway across the hallway before someone calls her name.

“Louise.”

She turns.

Max is already walking toward her, hands shoved into his pockets. He studies her face for half a second.

“…Hi.”

He nods to himself.

“So.”

Another beat.

“Need me to tell someone to fuck off?” The offer is delivered with complete sincerity.

She laughs. Small.

“It wouldn’t do me much good right now.”

“No?”

“No.”

He shrugs.

“Worth offering.”

They stand together for a moment. Eventually Max asks quietly,

“Where to now?”

“Aston.”

His expression falls.

“…Really?”

She offers him a tired smile.

“I’ll survive.”

He taps her head gently.

“See you soon… Hopefully under less stupid circumstances.”

“Looking forward to that.”

—

Aston feels almost like coming home. Not because of the building. Because of the people.

Fernando finds her before legal does. He doesn’t ask questions. He simply walks over and wraps her in a hug that is entirely paternal.

She melts into it for a fraction longer than she’d intended.

“It will go away.” His hand squeezes her shoulder.

“I know.”

“You believe me?”

She smiles apologetically.

“I want to.”

He touches her cheek briefly.

“Good.”

Then he steps aside as the lawyers arrive.

Business resumes.

—

By the time they leave Silverstone, the sky has already surrendered to evening.

The motorway stretches ahead in long ribbons of rain-darkened asphalt, taillights smearing into red watercolor against the wet glass. Every few seconds the wipers sweep across the windscreen, clearing the world only for another layer of drizzle to settle over it again. The rhythmic sound fills the car in place of conversation.

The driver keeps his eyes on the road.

Louise sits in the back seat beside Charlotte, shoes kicked off somewhere beneath the front seat, knees drawn loosely against her chest. Earlier, she’d answered questions in three different boardrooms with the same measured professionalism she’d built an entire career on. She’d repeated dates until they stopped sounding real. Listed departments she’d worked with. Explained reporting structures that had once been nothing more than ordinary parts of her job and had somehow become evidence that needed cataloguing.

Every meeting had ended the same way. Thank you for your professionalism. We’re sorry you have to go through this. We never doubted you. The words should have felt reassuring.

Instead they had accumulated somewhere beneath her ribs, heavy enough that breathing around them now required conscious effort.

Charlotte doesn’t interrupt the quiet. She learned years ago that Louise rarely talks while she’s still sorting through something. She turns thoughts over the way some people turn stones in their hands, inspecting every side before deciding whether they’re worth speaking aloud.

Outside, headlights rush past in the opposite direction, each one flashing briefly through the cabin before disappearing into the rain.

Louise watches them without really seeing them.

Eventually she shifts, slowly enough that Charlotte notices before she says anything.

“You alright?”

Louise hums noncommittally.

Another ten minutes pass. The motorway straightens. Rain softens. The car grows warmer.

Without thinking too much about it, Louise slides further across the seat until her shoulder brushes Charlotte’s arm. Then, with the quiet familiarity of someone who’s done it a hundred times before after long exhausting days, she curls sideways.

“Can I…”

She doesn’t finish the sentence. She doesn’t have to. Charlotte smiles softly and pats her lap.

“Come here.”

Louise folds herself down carefully, resting her head across Charlotte’s thighs, curling slightly toward the door. Her eyes stay open, following the blurred lights beyond the window while Charlotte automatically begins combing gentle fingers through her hair.

Neither of them comments on it. Some comforts become instinct long before they become habits.

Charlotte has braided her hair in airport lounges, untangled it after fittings, held it back when migraines left Louise nauseous, threaded absent-minded fingers through it during countless flights home.

This is simply another version of the same thing.

For several miles they remain like that. The movement of Charlotte’s fingers is slow and methodical, scratching lightly against her scalp before smoothing through the ends, over and over again.

Only when Louise’s breathing finally begins to slow does she speak.

“…Charlotte?”

“Hm?”

She keeps her hand moving.

Louise’s eyes remain fixed on the rain tracing uneven paths across the window.

“Is it…”

She stops.

Starts again.

“…is it really bad?”

Charlotte doesn’t pretend not to understand.

“The comments?”

A tiny nod.

“I haven’t shown them to you for a reason.”

“I know.”

Silence settles again.

Charlotte waits.

Eventually Louise exhales.

“I just keep…”

She searches for the right words, frustration creeping quietly into her voice.

“I keep wondering if everyone’s forgetting.”

Charlotte tilts her head slightly.

“Forgetting what?”

A small laugh escapes Louise.

Not because anything is funny.

Because she suddenly hears how impossible the thought sounds once it’s spoken aloud.

“Who I was.”

Charlotte’s fingers pause for barely a second before continuing.

“…Before Lando.”

Louise’s fingers knot together over her stomach.

The rain grows heavier again.

The wipers speed up.

Charlotte feels something tighten painfully in her chest.

Louise blinks up at the ceiling of the car.

“…Are they looking at everything I’ve done…”

Another pause.

“…and deciding it only happened because I was dating him?”

The question is almost whispered.

Not because she’s embarrassed.

Because she’s afraid she already knows the answer.

Charlotte doesn’t respond immediately.

She lets another few strokes pass through Louise’s hair.

“No.”

The answer is gentle.

Certain.

Louise doesn’t move.

Charlotte continues.

“Some people are saying that.”

“I’m not going to lie to you.”

She threads another loose strand behind Louise’s ear.

“They’re loud.”

“They’re confident.”

“They’re very, very wrong.”

Louise closes her eyes.

Charlotte keeps speaking, her voice calm enough to compete with the rain.

“And because they’re loud, it starts feeling like they’re everyone.”

“They aren’t.”

“It just feels that way.”

She looks down at the young woman resting across her lap.

“I’ve read thousands of comments over the last two days.”

Louise opens one eye.

“You did?”

“I wish I hadn’t.”

That earns the smallest ghost of a smile.

Charlotte smiles back.

“There are people defending you.”

“There are engineers publicly correcting misinformation.”

“There are journalists reminding people of your championship.”

“There are drivers quietly telling reporters to knock it off.”

She brushes her thumb lightly across Louise’s temple.

“But our brains don’t remember those.”

“They remember the cruel ones.”

“The unfair ones.”

“The ones that threaten something we’ve spent years building.”

Louise’s throat tightens.

“I just…”

She stares back out at the motorway.

“…I don’t want everything I’ve done to become a footnote.”

Charlotte’s hand stills for the first time.

She waits until Louise looks at her.

Then she speaks carefully.

“Lou.”

“You became a champion before anyone knew you were his girlfriend.”

“You earned every contract before anyone had a headline to write.”

“You impressed every engineer before the internet decided it understood your career.”

She smiles sadly.

“None of that disappeared because strangers discovered your relationship.”

Louise searches her face, wanting desperately to believe her.

Charlotte can see the doubt anyway.

So she says the thing she suspects Louise needs to hear most.

“Do you know what every single meeting today had in common?”

Louise frowns.

“They all apologized before asking their questions.”

A small nod.

“Do you know why?”

Another shrug.

“Because the people who actually know your work…”

Charlotte gently brushes another strand of hair away from her face.

“…never questioned it.”

—

The door opens before Louise can put her key in the lock.

Lando is already standing there.

He doesn’t ask how it went.

Doesn’t ask what they said.

Doesn’t ask whether she’s okay.

He simply reaches for her.

She steps into him without hesitation.

His arms close around her, one hand settling between her shoulder blades, the other cradling the back of her head beneath the hood of her coat.

She melts.

Not dramatically.

Just… enough.

Enough that her forehead finds his shoulder and stays there.

He kisses the top of her head.

“Hi.”

Her voice is muffled against his jumper.

“…Hi.”

Another minute passes before either of them lets go.

Dinner is already in the oven.

Nothing elaborate.

They move around each other with the ease of long practice.

He reaches past her for plates.

She automatically moves without needing to look.

Their rhythm remains intact.

The outside world hasn’t managed to steal that.

They eat at the kitchen island.

After dinner, Louise rinses her plate.

Dries her hands carefully.

Walks toward the back door.

“I’ll be outside.”

Lando looks up from loading the dishwasher.

“For a bit?”

She nods.

“…For a bit.”

He studies her for half a second.

“Okay.”

—

The grass is damp beneath her.

She doesn’t mind.

She lowers herself into the middle of the lawn anyway, crossing her legs loosely before eventually stretching them out in front of her.

The garden is quiet.

The vegetable beds are mostly bare now.

The climbing roses have long since stopped flowering.

Beyond the hedges, the fields disappear into darkness broken only by the occasional farmhouse light in the distance.

She breathes.

Cold air fills her lungs.

It stings.

She welcomes it.

She tips her face toward the sky.

Clouds hide most of the stars.

Probably for the best.

Tonight she isn’t sure she could carry something beautiful.

The back door clicks softly.

Akira ambles out.

She doesn’t run.

Doesn’t bark.

She pads across the garden until she reaches Louise, nudging her shoulder once with her enormous head.

Louise smiles faintly.

“Hi, girl.”

Akira sniffs her face.

Satisfied that her human appears physically intact, she circles once before collapsing beside her with a heavy sigh.

Five minutes later—

she gets up again.

Returns to the house.

Inside, Lando watches through the sitting room windows.

The television is on.

Muted.

He hasn’t followed a single minute of it.

Through the glass he can just make out Louise sitting in the middle of the lawn.

A still silhouette against the darkness.

Akira wanders back inside.

Looks at him.

Looks toward the garden.

Looks back at him again.

As if delivering a status report.

“She’s alright?”

Akira blinks.

Then, apparently deciding she has fulfilled her supervisory duties, climbs onto the rug with an exaggerated groan.

Lando smiles despite himself.

“You’ll let me know if she isn’t?”

One lazy tail thump.

He accepts that as agreement.

She had been sitting in exactly the same spot for over an hour.

Simply on the lawn, legs folded beneath her, absentmindedly pulling blades of grass between her fingers.

Just rolling one blade after another between her fingertips until it snapped.

Then reaching for another.

The rhythm repeated without thought.

The kind of movement that occupied restless hands when the mind refused to rest.

The vibration of Lando’s phone pulled him from the window.

He looked down.

Max Verstappen.

For a second he considered ignoring it.

Instead, he stepped quietly into the kitchen before answering.

“Hey.”

“Lando.”

Max’s voice was as direct as ever.

“How’s she doing?”

He looked back toward the garden.

Louise was still sitting in exactly the same place.

Akira had returned again, dropping directly into her lap.

Lando swallowed.

“I don’t know.”

There was a pause.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean…”

He watched Louise run her fingers absentmindedly over Akira’s ears.

He struggled to find words.

“…she’s functioning.”

“But?”

“But she’s not…”

He frowned.

“doing anything.”

Max stayed quiet.

Lando’s eyes never left the garden.

“And somehow that worries me more.”

“Why?”

“Because Louise’s never done nothing.”

He smiled faintly to himself.

“She’s always…”

He gestured instinctively despite Max not being able to see him.

“…reading something.”

“Planning something.”

“Making fun of me.”

A soft snort came from the other end.

“She fills space.”

He looked back outside.

“Now she just…”

“…sits.”

The silence stretched.

Then Max spoke.

“You know what I think?”

“What?”

“I think she’s grieving.”

Lando frowned.

“For what?”

“The life she thought she had.”

He leaned against the kitchen counter.

“What do you mean?”

Max didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, he asked,

“Do you remember when you first got into Formula One?”

“Yeah.”

“You spent years convincing people you weren’t there because of your surname.”

Lando closed his eyes.

“I remember.”

“You eventually stop hearing it.”

“Or at least you think you do.”

Another beat.

“Now imagine hearing the same thing again.”

“But about something you’ve spent your whole adult life building.”

Lando looked back toward Louise.

She was lying back on the grass now.

Akira stretched out beside her, one enormous paw resting lazily across her ankle as though physically anchoring her there.

“She’s mourning,” Max continued quietly.

“Not because she thinks they’re right.”

“Because she lost the certainty that everyone else knew they were wrong.”

Lando didn’t speak.

The words settled heavily.

“I don’t know how to help.”

“You don’t.”

Lando let out a humourless laugh.

“Brilliant.”

“I’m serious.”

“You can’t argue someone out of grief.”

“You can’t fix it.”

“You just…”

Max searched for the right words.

“…keep reminding them that what they lost was never who they actually were.”

Lando watched Louise reach over to absentmindedly rub Akira’s chest.

The dog immediately rolled onto her back with complete trust.

She smiled again.

Smaller this time.

Almost invisible.

“I miss her.”

He hadn’t meant to say it aloud.

Max heard anyway.

“I know.”

“I miss…”

He stopped himself.

“The version of her before all this.”

“You know what?”

“What?”

“I don’t think she’s gone.”

Lando looked out at the woman in the garden.

“Then where is she?”

Max answered without hesitation.

“She’s tired.”

Another pause.

“And tired people borrow silence until they have enough strength to become themselves again.”

Lando stood there for a long moment after the call ended.

Outside, nothing had changed.

Louise was still sitting in the grass.

Akira still beside her.

The evening breeze still moving gently through the hedges.

He didn’t go to her.

Not yet.

She’d asked for space without saying the words.

He could give her that.

But as he watched Akira make another slow circuit of the garden before inevitably returning to Louise’s side, one thought settled quietly in the back of his mind.

The dog wasn’t checking whether she was still there.

She was simply making sure she didn’t have to be alone while she found her way back.

—

By the time he glances at the clock again, it’s nearly eleven.

The temperature has dropped sharply.

He watches Louise rub absently at one sleeve before tucking her hands beneath her arms.

Enough.

He stands.

Slides open the back door.

Cold air rushes inside.

“Lou?”

His voice isn’t loud.

It doesn’t need to be.

She turns immediately.

He smiles softly across the garden.

“I think it’s time.”

She looks around, almost surprised to find herself still sitting there.

“I lost track.”

“I noticed.”

A tiny smile touches her mouth.

“You’ve been watching me.”

“Only enough to make sure you hadn’t turned into a garden ornament.”

She huffs a quiet laugh.

“I was considering it.”

“I figured.”

He steps one pace onto the patio but doesn’t walk all the way over.

Still giving her the last few feet.

“It’s freezing.”

“I know.”

“And I’d quite like my girlfriend to avoid hypothermia.”

She stands slowly, brushing damp grass from the back of her trousers.

Akira appears beside her as though summoned by the movement, tail wagging once before falling into step.

Louise reaches the patio and stops in front of him.

For a moment neither says anything.

Then she leans forward until her forehead rests lightly against his chest.

“I think,” she murmurs, “I’m done thinking for today.”

His arms slide around her immediately.

“You don’t have to do any more tonight.”

She nods against him.

“Can you think for me tomorrow?”

He kisses the top of her head.

“Gladly.”

⸻

The meetings stop.

For a couple of days.

Long enough for them to believe the worst has passed.

Then another email arrives.

Marked urgent.

Fédération Internationale de l’Automobile

Attendance requested.

Mandatory.

Both of them.

—

The FIA office feels cold. Not physically—the air conditioning hums at the same steady temperature—but in the way people hold themselves. Polite. Controlled. Careful with where they place their eyes.

Charlotte is already there, tablet in hand, posture straight enough to cut glass.

She doesn’t look up immediately when Louise walks in.

“Morning,” Louise says, dropping her bag onto the chair with a soft thud.

Charlotte hums in acknowledgment, scrolling once more before finally lifting her gaze.

There’s no anger there.

Which somehow makes it worse.

“We’re not here to discuss the internet.” Charlotte says pointed.

Louise presses her lips together.

Right.

Charlotte sets the tablet down. “This is alignment, not discipline. Your contract is clear—your private life is yours. Aston has no interest in controlling that.”

A beat.

“But,” she adds, and there it is, “The FIA is interested in how this affects operations moving forward, and looking backwards.”

Louise leans back slightly in her chair, crossing one leg over the other. Defensive, but composed.

“Operations,” she repeats.

“Yes.”

There’s something deliberate in Charlotte’s tone. Grounding. Steering.

“Media comments increased. You’ll be asked about it—repeatedly. You are not obligated to answer beyond a neutral acknowledgment.”

Louise nods once. “Got it.”

“And,” Charlotte continues, holding her gaze now, “you are not to engage in… improvisation.”

That almost gets a smile out of her.

“Improvisation,” Louise echoes.

“Smart remarks. Deflection that reads as provocation. We are not escalating this.”

Louise tilts her head, studying her for a second.

“You think I’d make it worse.”

“I think,” Charlotte says carefully, “you have a talent for saying exactly what people don’t expect.”

A pause.

“And this is not the moment to exercise that talent.”

Silence stretches between them for a second longer.

Louise looks away first, jaw tightening slightly before she nods again.

“Fine.”

Charlotte softens—just a fraction.

“This is not a problem to solve. It’s a situation to manage.”

That lands differently.

Louise exhales, some of the tension bleeding out of her shoulders.

“Okay.”

“Good.” Charlotte taps her tablet once. “Because they are waiting.”

Of course they are.

“and Louise?” She calls before opening the door. “We are calm today.”

—

Everything is glass and quiet footsteps and voices that never quite rise above a certain level, like the entire place runs on controlled volume.

Louise walks in with Charlotte at her side and immediately spots him.

Lando is already there.

He’s leaning back in his chair, one ankle hooked over his knee, looking deceptively relaxed—but she knows him well enough to catch the tells. The slight bounce in his foot. The way his fingers tap once against his arm before stilling.

He glances up when she walks in.

Their eyes meet for half a second.

That’s all they allow.

It’s enough.

There’s a flicker of something—you okay?—answered just as quickly—yeah, you?

Then it’s gone.

Back to neutral.

Back to careful.

McLaren’s representatives sit beside him, composed in that practiced way of people used to high-pressure rooms. Across the table, FIA officials shuffle papers that don’t need shuffling.

Charlotte gestures for Louise to sit.

She does.

Hands folded in her lap.

Mouth shut.

We are calm today.

One of the FIA officials clears his throat.

“Thank you all for coming on such short notice.”

No one responds.

He continues anyway.

“As you’re aware, recent developments have brought certain… considerations to our attention regarding driver conduct and information security.”

Louise’s jaw tightens.

Information security.

You’ve got to be kidding.

“We want to ensure,” he goes on, “that there has been no exchange of sensitive data between competing teams via personal relationships.”

There it is.

Out in the open.

For a second, she thinks she might actually laugh.

Instead, she presses her tongue against the inside of her cheek and keeps her expression flat.

Across the table, she sees Lando shift—just slightly. Not enough for anyone else to notice. Enough for her to know exactly what he’s thinking.

This is ridiculous.

Yeah.

It is.

Before she can even consider speaking, Charlotte’s voice cuts in—smooth, controlled.

“Aston Martin takes data security extremely seriously,” she says. “As outlined in Louise’s contract, there are strict boundaries regarding proprietary information.”

McLaren follows immediately.

“Our internal protocols reflect the same,” one of their representatives adds. “There is no evidence to suggest any breach has occurred.”

The FIA official nods, but not convincingly.

“This is a precautionary review.”

“Of course,” Charlotte replies, polite but edged with something firmer now. “Though I would caution against implying misconduct without basis.”

A small shift in the room.

Pressure, redirected.

Louise keeps her gaze forward, even as irritation coils tighter in her chest. Every instinct in her is screaming to say something—sharp, cutting, accurate.

You think we’re passing around setup sheets over dinner?

She swallows it.

Hard.

Because Charlotte is right.

Because this isn’t the moment.

The FIA official flips a page.

“We may request access to certain communications from previous seasons, purely as a formality.”

That does it.

Louise’s fingers curl slightly in her lap.

Previous seasons.

Now they’re reaching.

She inhales slowly, steadying herself before anything shows on her face.

Before she can speak—before she can even risk it—McLaren steps in again.

“We would strongly oppose any invasive review without clear cause,” their representative says. “Driver privacy is protected under contractual agreements.”

Charlotte doesn’t miss a beat.

“Aston will not authorize access to personal communications absent legitimate justification.”

Silence.

Not empty this time.

Heavy.

Measured.

Louise feels it shift—the balance of it. The room tilting, just slightly, away from scrutiny and toward resistance.

Good.

Let them push back.

She finally glances at Lando again.

Just for a second.

He’s already looking at her this time.

There’s something steadier in his expression now. Less tension. More certainty.

We’re fine.

She believes him.

The FIA official exhales, folding his hands together.

“We understand your positions,” he says, though it’s clear he doesn’t like them. “This matter will remain under review.”

Of course it will.

Meetings like this never end clean.

They just… pause.

Chairs shift. Papers are gathered. The quiet hum of the building creeps back in as if nothing just happened.

Louise stands, smoothing her jacket down out of habit more than necessity.

Charlotte leans in slightly as they prepare to leave.

“You did well,” she murmurs, low enough that no one else hears.

Louise huffs a quiet breath. “I didn’t do anything.”

“Exactly.”

That almost makes her smile.

Across the room, Lando is being pulled into a separate conversation, one of his team members talking low in his ear. He nods along, but his attention drifts—just for a second—back to her.