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No Title - Confirmation

Lando Norris x Louise Levine (Original Character)

Summary: The schedules don’t line up. The distance doesn’t get smaller. And hiding isn’t getting any easier.

When Lando and Louise realize they’re running out of ways to fit each other into their lives, they make a choice that feels both overdue and terrifying.

Word Count: 9.7k

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Monaco in December is supposed to be quiet. It isn’t. It’s just… shinier.

The light is softer, bouncing off white stone and glass instead of asphalt. The harbor is full of yachts that look aggressively relaxed, bobbing in place like they’ve retired from ambition. No engines screaming. No helicopters chopping the air every ten minutes.

Just money. And sunlight. And schedules that refuse to line up.

Louise and Lando are sprawled on opposite ends of his couch like casualties of a logistical war.

Louise has her iPad open, calendar split into color-coded blocks so precise it looks less like a schedule and more like a circuit diagram. Lando sits across from her with his phone, his version of organization existing somewhere between memory and hopeful scrolling.

There’s coffee. There’s water. There’s a pen Louise hasn’t used but refuses to move. There’s also a growing sense that this is not going to work.

“Okay,” Lando says, leaning forward, like proximity might help. “I finish with Quadrant stuff on the twelfth. Then I’m free until—” He scrolls. Frowns. “—the fifteenth. But the fifteenth is… flexible.”

Louise doesn’t look up. “Define flexible.”

“It says ‘maybe simulator,’” he says. “Which could mean anything.”

“That’s not flexible,” she replies, tapping her screen. “That’s undefined.”

“Same thing.”

“It’s not.”

He watches her for a second, the way she moves through information—quick, precise, already three steps ahead of where he is.

“Okay,” he says slowly. “When are you free?”

She zooms out on her calendar. Then back in. Then sideways into another tab entirely.

“…Technically?” she says.

“That’s not a promising start.”

“I have a window on the thirteenth,” she continues, ignoring him. “From late afternoon until early morning on the fourteenth.”

He blinks.

“That’s… a night.”

“Yes.”

“That’s your availability.”

“It’s a viable overlap,” she corrects.

He leans back with a stump, staring at her like she’s just offered him a meeting slot instead of time together.

“Lou,” he says, dragging a hand down his face, half amused, half incredulous. “I don’t want to book you.”

“You’re not booking me,” she says calmly. “We’re aligning schedules.”

“That sounds worse.”

She pauses. Considers that.

“…It does sound worse,” she admits.

Louise hums, already shaking her head before he’s finished. “I’m in Wellington for horses. Then Switzerland for shooting. Then Aston wants me in the wind tunnel.”

“…Of course they do.”

She swivels her iPad toward him. “What about after that?”

He leans closer, scrolling. “That’s February.”

They freeze. Stare at each other. Let it sink in.

—

They try anyway. For another twenty minutes, they move things around. Shift blocks. Open new tabs. Check travel times. Account for delays that haven’t happened yet but statistically might.

Every solution creates another problem. Every overlap disappears when they zoom out. At some point, Lando stops pretending this is fixable and just watches her instead.

The way her brow furrows—not in frustration, but in focus. The way her fingers move faster when something doesn’t line up, like she can force it into place if she just tries hard enough.

He knows that look. He’s seen it in data rooms. In race debriefs. In moments where the answer has to exist somewhere.

But this—This isn’t a system you can optimize.

“Hey,” he says gently.

She doesn’t hear him. Or she does, but it gets filtered out by the problem.

“Lou.”

This time, she pauses. Looks up.

“What?”

He tilts his head slightly, softer now. “We’re doing too much.”

Her eyes flicker back to the screen. Then to him.

“I can make it work,” she says. Not stubborn. Just certain. “We just need to—”

“You don’t,” he interrupts, not sharply, just enough to catch her before she disappears into it again. “You don’t have to force it.”

There’s a beat. Her shoulders tense. Just slightly.

“I’m not forcing it,” she says.

He doesn’t argue. Just watches her. Waits.

And then—slowly—something in her expression shifts.

Not all at once. Just enough. She looks back at the calendar. At the scattered pieces that refuse to connect. At the empty spaces that should line up but don’t.

Then Louise collapses backward against the couch dramatically, one arm flung over her eyes. “We’re not going to see each other.”

“We’ll FaceTime,” he offers, weak and hopeful.

“I will throw my phone into the sea.”

“We’ll watch something at the same time?”

“You fall asleep in ten minutes.”

“That’s untrue,” he protests. “I fall asleep in twelve.”

She sighs, long and theatrical, like she’s conceding a duel. “I accept defeat.”

He lifts his head immediately. “That was fast.”

She nods once. Then sets the stylus down.

“That’s not happening,” she says, more decisively now. “Not without external intervention.”

He blinks.

“External—what?”

She looks at him. And there’s something in her eyes now that wasn’t there before. Something resigned. Something almost… amused.

“There’s one person who could fix this,” she says.

His posture straightens. “Amazing. Who?”

She winces. Just a little. “It might cost us.”

He squints. “How much?”

“…Emotionally.”

He groans instantly, hands flying to his face. “Oh no.”

“Charlotte.”

Lando stares up at the ceiling like he’s waiting for divine intervention. “Charlotte Charlotte?”

“The one and only.”

“She will kill us.”

“She will judge us,” Louise corrects. “Very thoroughly. Full-length paragraphs. Bullet points.”

“She’ll ask what we were thinking.”

“She’ll say it could have gone terribly.”

“She’ll say, ‘Don’t even get me started on the professional aspect.’”

Lando rubs his face. “She’s already started in my head.”

“But,” Louise adds, quieter now, “she’ll still love us.”

He exhales. “…She does love us.”

“So,” Lando says slowly, tapping his fingers against his knee. “That raises a different question.”

Louise tilts her head. “Which is?”

He holds her gaze.

“Are we ready for that?”

The room stills. Not dramatically. Just enough. Because this isn’t about schedules anymore. It’s about letting someone else see the thing they’ve been holding carefully between them.

Louise doesn’t answer right away. Her fingers rest near the iPad, but she doesn’t reach for it. Instead, she leans back slightly, eyes drifting—not avoiding him, just… thinking.

“She already knows,” she says after a moment. “And our parents too.”

He huffs a quiet breath. “Yeah. They do.”

“Not officially,” she adds. “But… functionally.”

He nods. Because that’s true. The way Charlotte watches Louise sometimes—like she’s already filled in the blanks. The way their parents have been… adjacent to the truth without stepping directly into it.

“They’re just waiting for us to say it.” Lando says.

“Yes.”

There’s a pause. Then—

“Do you want to?” he asks.

The question lands gently. Open. Louise looks at him again. Really looks this time. Not analyzing. Not overthinking. Just… checking.

“We can start small,” she says. “Controlled.”

He nods, following her logic. “Who?”

“Charlotte,” she says first, like that one’s obvious. “Because logistically, we need her.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. “And she’ll kill us if we don’t tell her before asking for help.”

“And then our parents,” she adds.

“…Yeah,” he says slowly.

“So it’s not introducing new information,” she continues. “It’s confirming existing assumptions.”

He tilts his head. “You make it sound like a press release.”

“It’s a strategy,” she replies.

He laughs quietly. Then sobers just a little.

“And you’re okay with that?”

She doesn’t hesitate this time.

“Yes.”

He studies her for a second longer.

Then nods.

“Okay,” he says. “Yeah. We can do that.”

—

Louise’s kitchen smells like freshly brewed coffee and buttered popcorn—comfort food energy, intentional or not.

Charlotte sits at the island, laptop open, glasses perched on her nose, typing with the brutal efficiency of someone who knows things and disapproves of most of them. Louise leans against the counter across from her, arms folded, pretending not to fidget.

There’s a knock.

Louise goes to open the door.

Lando steps in, careful like he’s entering a courtroom.

Before either of them fully reaches the kitchen, Charlotte hums. Doesn’t look up.

“What are you borrowing today?”

Louise snorts before she can stop herself.

Lando shoves his hands deeper into his pockets, suddenly very polite. “Actually,” he says carefully, “I came so we could tell you something.”

Charlotte’s fingers stop mid-typing. She looks up slowly. Her gaze flicks from Lando to Louise. Then back again.

“Oh,” she says flatly. “This has a tone.”

Louise clears her throat. “We’re dating.”

Silence.

Charlotte closes her laptop. Very deliberately. She removes her glasses, sets them down with precision, and folds her hands on the counter.

“I see,” she says.

No yelling. No immediate reaction. Which is worse.

“How long?” Charlotte asks.

Louise glances at Lando.

“A while,” Lando answers.

Charlotte nods once. “Define.”

“Longer than you’ll like,” Louise says.

Charlotte inhales slowly through her nose. Then begins.

“I will start by saying I do not approve,” she says evenly. “Not because either of you is irresponsible. Quite the opposite. Because you are both highly visible, high-stakes individuals operating in overlapping professional ecosystems with reputational, contractual, and regulatory implications.”

Lando swallows. Louise studies the countertop like it might offer protection.

“This could have gone terribly,” Charlotte continues. “Still can. The power dynamics alone—media narratives, conflict-of-interest speculation, public pressure—are a minefield.”

She gestures vaguely, like she’s swatting away worst-case scenarios. “And don’t even get me started on timing.”

Lando winces. Louise nods, accepting her fate like someone being read a very articulate weather report about an incoming storm.

Charlotte pauses. Her voice changes.

“But,” she says, softer now, “I also see you.”

Both of them look up.

“I’ve watched you,” Charlotte continues. “Individually. And together. I noticed the changes before I had explanations. You’re calmer. More grounded. Both of you.” She sighs, tired but honest. “I hate the situation,” Charlotte says, glaring at the universe. “I love you.”

Then she stands and pulls them both into a fierce, uncompromising hug. Louise melts instantly. Lando exhales like he’s been holding his breath for months.

“Thank you,” Louise mumbles into her shoulder.

“Don’t thank me yet,” Charlotte mutters. “I’m not done.”

Lando groans softly. Louise smiles, already bracing herself. Because this is what love looks like too.

—

The hug ends, and with it, the softness. Not gone—never gone—but folded away neatly so she can get back to what she does best: anticipating problems before they have the chance to become disasters.

She exhales once, sharp, like she’s resetting her system, then reaches for her glasses again and slides them back on.

“Right,” she says, voice snapping back into precision. “Emotional acknowledgment complete. Now we deal with reality.”

Lando groans under his breath. Louise doesn’t even try to hide her smile. “Here it comes.”

Charlotte ignores them both, already reopening her laptop, fingers moving fast, efficient, pulling up tabs and documents with muscle memory.

“You two,” she continues, not looking up, “are not just two people dating. You are two drivers. In different teams. In overlapping competitive structures with media ecosystems that thrive on conflict and narrative.”

She clicks something. Scrolls. Clicks again.

“This is not a private relationship in the traditional sense,” she says. “It’s a potential headline waiting to happen.”

The words don’t land harshly. Just… accurately.

Lando shifts slightly beside Louise, posture straightening without him realizing it. “We know,” he says. “We’ve thought about it.”

Charlotte’s gaze flicks up—quick, sharp. “Have you thought about contracts?”

Silence. That answers her question.

She leans back in her chair slowly, studying them like a case she’s already halfway through solving.

“Your racing contracts,” she says, enunciating each word carefully, “are not designed with this in mind. Not explicitly. But that doesn’t mean they won’t react to it.”

Louise’s arms fold tighter across her chest. “React how?”

Charlotte tilts her head. “Conflict of interest concerns. Media clauses. Behavioral expectations. Sponsorship overlap. Competitive integrity.”

She ticks each one off on her fingers.

“Two drivers. Two teams. One relationship. That raises questions whether you like it or not.”

Lando exhales through his nose, slow. “We’re not sharing data or anything like that.”

“I know,” Charlotte says immediately. “That’s not the point. The point is perception.”

She leans forward slightly, tone sharpening—not aggressive, just focused.

“You don’t need to do anything wrong for this to become a problem. You just need someone to think you might.”

That lands heavier.

Louise’s gaze drops briefly to the counter, her brain already running through scenarios, variables, outcomes.

Charlotte softens—just a fraction.

“I’m not saying this to scare you,” she says. “I’m saying this so you’re not caught off guard when someone else inevitably tries to make it bigger than it is.”

Lando nods once, slower now. “So what do we do?”

Charlotte doesn’t hesitate.

“Protection,” she says simply.

She turns the laptop toward them slightly—not enough to fully show, just enough to make it real.

“Lando, before your next contract revision, you call your legal team, and your manager. You tell them—hypothetically—that you want to understand how personal relationships are handled. You don’t need to name Louise. Not yet. But you need clarity.”

He nods again, already filing it away. “Okay.”

Charlotte shifts her attention to Louise.

“I’ll handle yours,” she says. “Discreetly. I’ll review your current agreements, flag anything that could become an issue, and we’ll build in protections where we can.”

Louise’s shoulders drop slightly—relief, quiet but immediate. “Thank you.”

Charlotte hums, like that part was never in question.

“But,” she adds, lifting a finger, “legal protection only goes so far. The rest is on you.”

They both look at her.

“This only works,” she continues, “if you don’t make it harder for yourselves.”

There’s a pause.

Lando frowns slightly. “Meaning?”

Charlotte gives him a look.

“No public flirting that can be clipped out of context,” she says. “No suspicious timing overlaps that look like coordination. No disappearing into the same places without plausible explanations.”

Louise winces slightly. “We’ve been careful.”

“I know,” Charlotte says. “Keep being careful.”

She closes her laptop halfway, not fully disengaging, just… pausing.

“You’ve done the hardest part already,” she adds, voice quieter now. “You built something stable in chaos.”

Louise glances at Lando, just for a second.

Charlotte sees it.

Her expression softens again, despite herself.

“Now you just have to protect it from the parts of your lives that don’t know how to leave things alone.”

There’s a beat.

Then, because she can’t help herself—

“And for the love of everything, do not give the media a ‘forbidden romance’ angle. I will personally shut it down.”

Lando snorts. “Noted.”

Louise smiles, tension easing just enough to breathe again. “We’ll try not to become a storyline.”

She straightens, energy shifting again—back to logistics, to control, to the part of her that keeps everything from falling apart.

“Now,” she says, clapping her hands once. “Back to scheduling before I regret helping you.”

—

Ten minutes later, Charlotte has three calendars open, two phones in hand, and an alarming level of competence.

One phone is balanced between shoulder and ear. The other is scrolling. Her laptop hums quietly, already logged into something that looks expensive and classified.

Louise and Lando sit side by side at the kitchen island like defendants awaiting sentencing.

“Okay,” Charlotte says briskly, tapping a screen. “I can get you Four days.”

Louise gasps, hand flying to her chest. “Four?”

Lando blinks. “Together?”

“Yes,” Charlotte says sharply, already typing. “After the new year.”

They both freeze.

Hope creeps in cautiously, like it’s afraid to be punished.

“But only if you promise to answer my questions.”

The air changes.

Not dramatically—no thunder, no violins—but in that subtle way Louise has learned to recognize: the moment before consequences. She and Lando glance at each other, a quick, silent exchange they’ve perfected over the last year.

This is happening.

We survive this together.

Louise exhales first. “…Okay,” she says carefully, like someone agreeing to step onto ice that looks solid but absolutely isn’t.

“Fine,” Lando adds, already sighing like a man about to lose an argument he hasn’t technically entered yet.

Charlotte leans back in her chair, fingers steepled, eyes gleaming with professional satisfaction. She smiles like a cat who’s just been handed the house keys and the alarm code.

“Excellent,” she says. “Let’s begin.”

She tilts her head, studying them. “First question. How did you manage to hide this?”

Louise shrugs, aiming for casual and only half-hitting it. “You taught me well.”

Charlotte snorts. “That is not an answer.”

“I also occasionally post TikToks implying boys have cooties,” Louise adds helpfully. “Very effective misdirection.”

Charlotte blinks. Once.

“…You weaponized the internet.”

“Yes.”

“And,” Lando cuts in, deadpan, “I just act completely unbothered whenever people speculate about how whipped I am.”

Louise elbows him without looking.

Charlotte’s smile sharpens immediately.

“Oh, this should be good.”

Louise’s shoulders drop a fraction.

Then she grimaces. “…I may have stolen your phone a couple of times.”

Charlotte’s mouth falls open.

“And,” Louise rushes on, hands flying, “I gave you extra days off. On purpose. Strategically.”

Charlotte stares at her. “You manipulated my calendar.”

“Yes,” Louise says, unrepentant. “Lovingly.”

Lando coughs. “She had color-coded justifications.”

Louise nods. “Very reasonable ones.”

“And,” she adds casually, “I bribed the security guys to turn a blind eye more often.”

Charlotte pinches the bridge of her nose. “You what.”

“They like pastries,” Louise says defensively. “And peace.”

There’s a long pause.

“You bribed your own security team.”

“They still did their jobs.”

“You just convinced them not to report suspiciously recurring British men.”

Charlotte lifts her head just enough to point at him. “See? He understands the issue.”

Charlotte exhales slowly. Deeply. Like she’s deciding whether to laugh or scream.

“I am both impressed,” she says finally, “and deeply concerned.”

“We were careful,” Louise says, softer now.

Charlotte looks at her for a beat longer than necessary. Really looks. And sees it immediately.

How much thought this took.

How badly they wanted to protect it.

Then she nods once. “Fair.”

She glances down at her notes. “Who else knows?”

“No one,” Lando answers immediately. “We’re telling our parents during the break. Just them.”

“And your siblings?” Charlotte asks.

“They suspect,” he admits. “They’ve been suspicious since I started smiling unprompted.”

Charlotte turns to Louise. “And the grid?”

Louise considers it for a second.

“Nothing concrete.”

Charlotte gives her a look.

“Louise.”

“Fine. There have been comments.”

“Who?”

“Max and Oscar.— But neither of them had concrete proof. Just guesses.”

Charlotte’s eyebrow lifts slowly. “Impressive.”

She scribbles something down, then pauses. Looks up.

“Next question,” she says sweetly. “Who fell first?”

Louise inhales, already forming her answer—

“She did,” Lando says instantly.

Louise whirls on him. “I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

"Nope.”

“You texted me first.”

“That was about racing.”

“At two in the morning.”

“Because we were in different time zones!”

Charlotte watches them for exactly three seconds—the easy overlap, the lack of defensiveness, the way they lean toward each other even while arguing.

Then she smiles.

“Yeah,” she says quietly. “You’re doomed.”

She slides her phone across the counter. “I’ll email you the schedule. Four days. Don’t mess it up.”

Louise beams like she’s just been handed a trophy. Lando exhales, shoulders dropping for the first time all day.

Charlotte stands, grabs her mug, already retreating down the hall.

“Oh,” she adds without turning around. “And if either of you break each other’s hearts, I will never forgive you.”

Lando nods solemnly. “Fair.”

Louise laughs—warm, relieved, full.

As Charlotte disappears into her room, Lando leans toward Louise and murmurs, “Worth the emotional cost.”

Louise grins. “Told you.”

He kisses her—quick, soft, instinctive.

From down the hall, Charlotte’s voice cuts in sharply:

“No making out in front of me!”

They burst into laughter, Louise ducking her head against his shoulder, Lando still smiling as if the world has finally aligned.

And for once—just once—it almost has.

⸻

Christmas, Split in Two

The holidays arrive like a pause button.

Not a stop. Just a held breath.

Louise is in New York, wrapped in a city that never really sleeps but hums lower this time of year. Snow dusts the sidewalks like an afterthought. Lights cling to windows. Her parents’ apartment smells like pine and cinnamon and something sweet Behati swears she didn’t overbake.

Lando is in England, home in the way that feels rooted and loud and warm. The kind of house where doors never quite close and someone is always laughing from another room. The air is damp, cold enough to bite, but the kitchen is alive—steam, voices, clatter.

They are apart.

They are also everywhere in each other’s day.

Louise wakes early, as she always does when she’s somewhere familiar but not hers. The light is pale through the curtains. New York gray-blue. She pads into the kitchen in socks, hoodie pulled tight, pours coffee she doesn’t really need.

Her phone buzzes.

Lando:

u awake or am I committing a crime

She smiles into her mug.

Louise:

awake

barely human

you?

A FaceTime request pops up before she finishes typing.

He answers shirtless, hair a mess, cheeks pink from the cold. There’s movement behind him—someone laughing, a door slamming, the unmistakable chaos of his family waking up all at once.

“You’re up,” she says softly.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he replies. “My nieces woke me up by asking if Santa has a pit stop strategy.”

She laughs, the sound filling the quiet kitchen. “What did you say?”

“That he definitely runs hards and ignores team orders.”

She snorts. “Iconic.”

They sit like that for a few minutes. No rush. Just existing on opposite sides of the ocean, matching mugs, matching soft eyes.

“I miss you,” he says, casual but honest.

“I know,” she replies. “Me too.”

—

By mid-morning, both houses explode into noise.

In New York, Adam is halfway through a story that keeps getting interrupted by Behati correcting details and Louise arguing over ornaments. Someone puts on music too loud. Someone else complains it’s not loud enough.

Louise helps in the kitchen, hair pulled up, wearing pajamas she absolutely packed just for this. Red flannel. Little embroidered stars. She sends a picture.

Louise:

christmas uniform

don’t judge

A reply comes immediately.

Lando:

judging

but respectfully

She sends another photo later—her curled on the couch, blanket tucked under her chin, half-asleep while the room buzzes around her.

Lando:

that is a dangerous nap

you’ll wake up in 3 hours confused

Louise:

worth it

In England, Lando is drafted into cooking whether he wants to be or not. His mum hands him a spoon. His sisters argue about playlists. His nieces trail him like ducklings, demanding updates.

—

Louise pulls on a coat and steps outside with Behati, breath fogging, the city crisp and bright. She sends a voice note while they walk.

“I forgot how quiet it gets here on Christmas,” she murmurs. “Like the city’s holding its breath.”

Lando listens later, bundled up, walking muddy paths near home, the sky low and silver. He sends one back.

“There’s frost on everything,” he says. “The kind that crunches when you step on it. Feels… grounding.”

They cook—her helping chop vegetables, him burning something he insists was intentional.

They change into pajamas again after lunch, because both families believe in the sacredness of being comfortable.

They nap.

At different times. In different places.

—

By evening, the noise softens.

Lights dim. Wrapping paper litters floors. Someone starts a movie no one fully watches.

Louise finds herself tucked into her parents’ bed, legs tangled with Behati’s, head resting against her shoulder like she’s done a million times. Adam is reading something on his phone at the foot of the bed.

Her phone buzzes again.

Lando:

can we talk later

like actually talk

She knows what he means.

Louise:

yeah

I was hoping you’d ask

In England, Lando is perched on the edge of his childhood bed, door half-open, the sound of his family drifting down the hall. He rubs his hands together once, nerves sneaking in where joy usually lives.

“Hey,” she says when the call connects.

“Hey,” he replies.

They look at each other for a second longer than usual.

“I think…” he starts, then stops. Swallows. “I think it’s time.”

Louise nods. “Yeah.”

—

Louise stares at the ceiling, counting breaths.

Not because she needs to calm down—she’s not panicking—but because she needs the rhythm. Something predictable. Something she can hold onto while her thoughts line up into something she can actually say out loud without it unraveling halfway through.

The room is dim in that late-evening way where everything softens—lamps turned low, shadows stretching long across the walls, the outside world reduced to a quiet glow beyond the windows. The bed dips slightly under shared weight, sheets wrinkled from when she sat down “just for a minute” and never quite left.

Louise lies perpendicular to her parents, head near the edge of the mattress, feet dangling off the side, staring up at the ceiling like it might offer her a script if she waits long enough.

Then she turns her head.

Behati is already looking at her.

Of course she is.

Not surprised. Not startled. Just… there. Watching with that same steady attention she’s always had, like she noticed the shift in the air before Louise even registered it herself.

There’s no urgency in her expression. No immediate concern.

Just quiet readiness.

“Okay,” Behati says gently, voice low and warm, like she’s easing into something instead of pulling it out. “What’s going on?”

Louise almost laughs.

Not because it’s funny—but because of course there’s no escaping that question. Not with her. Not when she’s like this—calm, observant, already halfway to the truth without needing it spelled out.

She swallows.

Her gaze drifts back to the ceiling for a second, like maybe the words will arrange themselves better up there.

They don’t.

So she breathes in.

Out.

“I’m dating someone.”

She says it plainly.

No buildup. No softening.

Just… there.

The words land in the space between them and stay.

Behati doesn’t react immediately.

Not in the way most people would. No sharp inhale, no sudden shift upright, no what? who? since when? spilling out all at once.

Instead, her eyes narrow slightly—not in suspicion, but in focus. Like she’s turning the sentence over, checking its weight, its edges.

Adam goes still beside her.

Not frozen—just… attentive in a different way now. Processing.

“Okay,”

A beat passes.

Then, very calmly—

“How long have you been thinking about saying that out loud?”

Louise exhales, something in her shoulders loosening despite herself.

“…A while.”

Adam lets out a quiet breath through his nose, almost a laugh. “That tracks.”

Behati’s mouth twitches. Not quite a smile yet.

“Yeah,” Behati says after a beat, like she’s confirming something rather than learning it. “We figured.”

Louise lets out a small, embarrassed huff of air, dragging a hand over her face. “I know you did.”

“Mm,” Behati hums. “You weren’t exactly subtle.”

“I thought I was,” Louise mutters.

Adam smiles faintly. “You got quieter. And then you started smiling at your phone like it was telling you secrets.”

Louise groans, dropping her forehead briefly into the mattress. “That’s awful.”

“It’s very endearing,” Behati corrects.

Louise peeks at them from the corner of her eye. “You’re both insufferable.”

“And you’re deflecting,” Behati says lightly. “Which means we’re right.”

Then Behati tilts her head slightly, studying her.

“How long?” she asks.

Louise hesitates—not because she doesn’t want to answer, but because she knows this is the part that makes it feel real in a different way.

“…Not relevant.”

Behati exhales slowly through her nose, somewhere between impressed and mildly offended.

“Not… relevant,” she repeats.

Adam lets out a quiet chuckle. “That’s definitely relevant.”

Louise shrugs, a little sheepish now.

Behati shifts onto her elbows, looking at her more directly.

“Okay,” she says. “And you’re… good?”

Louise nods immediately. “Yeah.”

“Like, actually good,” Behati presses gently. “Not just ‘this is new and exciting’ good.”

Louise’s expression steadies.

“Actually good,” she says.

That’s enough.

Behati leans back slightly, satisfied. Adam relaxes again into the mattress, something in his posture easing.

“Alright,” he says simply.

Louise watches them both for a second, something warm settling in her chest—relief, maybe. Or just the quiet confirmation that she didn’t need to brace for impact in the first place.

Behati, however, is not done.

“So,” she says, voice casual in a way that is absolutely not casual, “are you going to tell us who, or are we supposed to keep pretending this is a mystery?”

Louise huffs a small laugh, shaking her head.

“You already know,” she says.

Behati’s eyebrow lifts. “We have a strong suspicion.”

Adam glances at Behati, then back at Louise, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “We’re waiting for confirmation.”

Louise presses her lips together, like she’s fighting a smile now.

This part feels… different.

Softer. Almost shy, in a way she doesn’t usually let herself be.

She exhales.

“…It’s Lando.”

Behati blinks once, then lets out a soft, knowing laugh, dropping her head back against the mattress.

“Yeah,” she says. “Okay. That's a relief.”

Adam’s smile deepens slightly, more visible now. “Thought so.”

Louise stares at them. “That’s it?”

“What were you expecting?” Behati asks, turning her head to look at her again. “A dramatic reaction?”

Louise drops her face into the pillow again. “This was a mistake.”

“No,” Behati says immediately, reaching over to nudge her arm. “This was overdue.”

Louise snorts, rolling her eyes.

“I was going to tell you.”

“Eventually,” Adam adds, amused.

Louise points at him. “You’re not helping.”

He smiles.

Behati grins.

There’s a quiet beat.

Then she clears her throat. “There’s… something else.”

Behati hums encouragingly. Adam’s phone is already forgotten, resting face-down on his knee.

Louise shifts, sitting up just enough to look between them. “I’m telling you because I wanted you to know. Not because I’m ready for it to be… a thing.”

Behati tilts her head, instantly understanding the subtext. “You want it kept small.”

Louise nods. “For now. Just… you. Please.”

Adam smiles, gentle and steady. “Of course.”

“No aunts,” Louise adds quickly. “No friends. No ‘I ran into someone and it slipped.’”

Behati laughs softly. “No group chats?”

“Especially no group chats,” Louise says, earnest. “I really like him. And I love this. I just want to protect it a little longer.”

Behati reaches up, cupping Louise’s face with both hands. “You don’t owe anyone access to your happiness,” she says firmly. “We can keep a secret.”

Adam raises two fingers like a vow. “Mum and Dad vault. Locked. Sealed.”

Louise exhales, relief washing over her. She sinks back down between them, warmth closing in from both sides.

“Thank you,” she murmurs.

Behati presses a kiss to her temple. “Anytime,” she says. “And when you are ready…”

She smiles knowingly.

“…we’ll be very excited.”

Louise groans softly, hiding her face again as both her parents laugh—gentle, loving, and exactly the kind of sound that makes her feel safe.

—

Across the ocean, Lando waits until the house settles.

Not quiet—not really. This house never is. But it softens. The edges blur. The noise drops into something layered instead of sharp—cartoon voices murmuring from the TV, the clink of cutlery being stacked away, laughter fading into smaller, more private conversations.

One of his nieces is curled into the corner of the couch, thumb tucked into her mouth, eyes heavy but stubbornly open, watching a cartoon she’s already memorized. The other is upside down on the rug, legs hooked over the armchair, giggling every time something ridiculous happens on screen.

From the kitchen, his parents are still talking.

“I’m serious, we didn’t need three desserts,” his dad says, voice low but firm in that way that means he’s already lost the argument.

“And I’m serious,” his mum replies, equally calm, equally unbothered, “people like options.”

“No one needs options after that much food.”

“Good thing no one asked you.”

Lando smiles, small and automatic, the sound of it settling something in his chest.

This is home. Not quiet. Never quiet. But safe in a way that doesn’t require silence to exist.

He shifts where he’s sitting, elbows on his knees, hands loosely clasped. His foot bounces once—twice—before he stills it deliberately, pressing it flat into the floor like he’s grounding himself in place.

He’s had harder conversations than this.

With team principals, where every word feels like it could shift the trajectory of his career. With engineers, breaking down mistakes that replay in his head long after the race ends. With himself, alone in hotel rooms, staring at ceilings and trying to make sense of thoughts that don’t come with neat conclusions.

This shouldn’t feel heavier.

But it does.

Because this one matters in a different way. There’s no strategy here. No performance. No angle.

Just truth.

He waits for the TV to dip into a commercial break—some instinct, ingrained and precise, telling him timing matters even here—and then he straightens slightly, drawing in a breath that sits deeper in his chest than he expects.

“Mum,” he says.

His voice isn’t loud. It doesn’t need to be.

Still, it cuts through the room just enough.

“Dad. Can I tell you something?”

The reaction is immediate, but not dramatic.

His dad reaches for the remote and lowers the volume without taking his eyes off Lando, the movement automatic, practiced. His mum turns fully toward him, body angling in that quiet, attentive way she always has when something matters.

There’s a flicker of concern—brief, instinctive. The kind that comes from years of watching him live a life that moves fast, breaks things, demands more than it gives back.

But it softens almost as quickly.

“Of course,” she says gently. “What is it?”

Lando exhales slowly, letting the air leave his lungs in a controlled stream, like he’s managing it the same way he does everything else.

His hands stay clasped, not tight. Just anchored.

“I’m dating… Louise.”

He doesn’t build up to it.

Doesn’t dress it up.

He just says it.

The words land simply. Clean. No echo.

For half a second, nothing happens.

And then—

His mum’s expression shifts first.

Not surprise.

Recognition.

Her smile doesn’t break across her face—it settles there, slow and knowing, like something that’s been waiting patiently to be confirmed.

“I wondered when you’d say it,” she says.

Not if.

When.

Lando blinks, something in his chest loosening before he fully understands why.

His dad leans back slightly, arms crossing, not closed off—just thoughtful. Like he’s replaying months of small, quiet details and watching them fall into place.

“That explains a lot,” he says.

Lando lets out a quiet huff of a laugh, surprised. “It does?”

His dad nods once. “You’ve been… different.”

Lando’s brows lift slightly. “Different how?”

“Better,” his mum says before his dad can answer, her tone soft but certain. “You’re still you. Still busy, still in your own head half the time. But it’s not… heavy in the same way.”

His dad gestures vaguely, searching for the right shape of it. “More settled,” he adds. “Like you’re not constantly chasing the next thing.”

“And you call home more,” his mum says, a hint of amusement threading through her voice now. “Not to vent about racing. Just… to talk.”

Lando looks down for a second, a small smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

He hadn’t noticed that.

Or maybe he had—just not consciously.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I guess I do.”

There’s a pause, but it’s an easy one. No tension. No weight pressing down.

Just space.

He shifts again, fingers brushing lightly against each other before he stills them.

“There’s… one thing,” he adds, glancing briefly toward the hallway where laughter spikes again—his sisters, his nieces, life continuing uninterrupted.

His mum follows his gaze, then looks back at him, already understanding the shape of the request before he says it.

“Could we keep it between us?” he says. “For now. Just until we’re ready.”

There’s no hesitation.

No glance exchanged between them.

No calculation.

His mum reaches out, her hand closing gently around his, thumb brushing once across his knuckles in a way that’s grounding without being overwhelming.

“Of course,” she says.

His dad nods easily. “It’s your story,” he adds. “You get to decide when and how it’s told.”

Something in Lando’s chest loosens fully this time.

Not partially.

Not cautiously.

Fully.

Like something he didn’t realize he was holding onto has finally been set down.

“Thanks,” he says, softer now.

His mum stands then, crossing the short distance between them without making it into a moment bigger than it needs to be. She pulls him into a hug—gentle, steady, familiar.

Not tight.

Not overwhelming.

Just there.

“I like her,” she murmurs near his ear. “And from what I’ve seen… she’s good for you.”

Lando closes his eyes briefly, his forehead resting against hers for a second longer than usual when she pulls back.

He exhales, the words settling somewhere deep and certain.

His dad stands too, stepping in with a firm hand on Lando’s shoulder, giving it a squeeze that says everything he doesn’t feel the need to say out loud.

“Tell her she’s welcome here,” he says. “Anytime.”

Lando smiles—real, unguarded, easy in a way that feels new and familiar all at once.

“I will.”

Behind them, the TV volume creeps back up as the cartoon resumes. One of his nieces lets out a dramatic gasp at something entirely unimportant, the other dissolves into laughter again, and the kitchen argument picks back up like it was never paused.

Life continues.

Unaware.

Unchanged.

And yet—

Lando sits back down, shoulders lighter, something steady and quiet settling into place inside him.

For once, nothing feels like it’s about to shift.

For once, it just… is.

—

Louise is on the living room couch, legs tucked beneath her, scrolling idly through her phone.

Adam stands by the window for a long moment, staring out at the dark garden like he’s about to negotiate a record deal with the moon.

“Lou,” he says finally.

“Can we talk?”

She sighs, sets her phone face down on the coffee table, and braces herself theatrically.

“So this is the sequel?”

“This is… the expanded edition.”

She drops her head back against the couch. “Of course it is.”

He studies her for a second before speaking again.

“You know I’m not upset,” he says.

“I know.”

“I just—” He stops, reorganizing the sentence. “You don’t do things lightly.”

Her gaze shifts back to him.

“No,” she agrees.

“And you don’t date casually.”

“I don't date, like at all.”

He nods once.

“So when you say it’s real,” he continues, “I believe you.”

The air changes slightly.

Less joking.

More honest.

She draws one knee closer to her chest.

“It is,” she says quietly.

“You’re softer,” he repeats, gentler. “Not weaker. Just… open.”

She looks down at her hands.

“I didn’t realize I was that closed before.”

“You were careful.”

“That’s polite.”

“It’s true.”

She drops her head into her hands.

“I can’t believe this is happening.”

He leans back, crossing his arms loosely.

“You’re still not off the hook.”

Her head snaps up. “Off the hook for what?”

“I’m serious.”

“About what?”

“Boundaries.”

She stares at him in disbelief.

“You cannot be giving me a boundaries lecture.”

“I absolutely can.”

“I negotiate multimillion-dollar contracts,” she says, gesturing toward herself. “With actual lawyers.”

“This is different.”

“How?”

“Because contracts don’t gift you bingo hoodies on Christmas.”

She chokes on a laugh despite herself.

“You’ve been observing,” she says.

“I’m your dad.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one you’re getting.”

She shakes her head, smiling despite the mild mortification creeping in.

“Boundaries,” he repeats. “Knowing what you need. Not shrinking yourself to make it easier for someone else to love you.”

Her smile fades just slightly.

“I don’t shrink,” she says.

“You used to.”

The words aren’t harsh.

They’re factual.

She looks away for a second.

The tree lights flicker against the window.

“I’ve always been the adaptable one,” she admits quietly. “It’s easier.”

“For who?” he asks.

She doesn’t answer immediately.

He softens.

“I don’t want you to be the low-maintenance girl,” he says. “The cool girl. The one who says she’s fine when she isn’t.”

She exhales slowly.

“I’m not doing that,” she says.

“Good.”

“Are you happy?” he asks one last time.

“Yes.”

“Safe?”

“Yes.”

“Sure?”

“I refuse to answer that.”

He narrows his eyes. “Answer what?”

“The unspoken sub-question about whether I am, in fact, being responsible in all the ways you’re worried about.”

He tries to look offended.

“I’m your dad.”

“And I am an adult.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he repeats stubbornly. “You’re my daughter and I will always overprotect you.”

She shakes her head slowly, smiling despite herself.

“You’re impossible.”

“And consistent.”

Without another word, he opens his arms.

She groans instantly.

“Don’t make it sentimental.”

“Get over here.”

She rolls her eyes but shifts closer, folding into the hug with practiced familiarity.

He holds her tightly, chin resting lightly against the top of her head.

“You’ll always be my little girl,” he murmurs.

She pulls back just enough to glare at him.

“You promised you wouldn’t make fun of my height again.”

“I’m not making fun of it.”

“You are absolutely implying it.”

“I’m stating a factual comparison.”

She sighs, but she’s smiling.

“I am not little.”

“You are to me.”

She hesitates.

Then wraps her arms around him again, squeezing back just as tightly.

“Love you dad,” she says quietly.

“I Love you too baby,” he replies. “I just needed to hear you say you’re okay.”

“I am.”

He leans back, studying her face.

“And if that changes?”

“You’ll know,” she says. “Because I won’t hide it from you.”

That’s all he really wanted.

He nods once.

“Okay.”

She bumps her shoulder against his.

“For the record,” she adds lightly, “he’s very aware that if he hurts me, you’ll write a revenge album.”

Adam pauses.

“…I hadn’t considered that angle.”

She laughs.

The tension dissolves fully now, replaced by something warmer.

—

Later that night, when the houses are quiet and the world feels smaller again, they FaceTime once more.

“It went well,” she says softly.

“Yeah,” he replies. “Really well.”

They sit in silence for a moment. Comfortable. Certain.

“Next Christmas,” he says.

She smiles. “Same place.”

“Together,” he adds.

She nods. “Together.”

And the distance—still there—feels a little less powerful than it did before.

—

Cisca switches off her bedside lamp and slides under the covers. Adam Norris joins her moments later, the mattress dipping familiarly.

For a few seconds, they lie in the dark.

Then—

“Well,” he says.

She smiles into the pillow.

“Finally.”

“I thought we were going to have to draw him a diagram.”

Cisca laughs quietly.

“He’s always been cautious.”

She rolls onto her side to face him.

“You saw it too, didn’t you?”

“The way he looks when he says her name?” he replies.

She nods.

“He’s steadier,” she says softly. “Less restless.”

Adam considers that.

“He’s grown up,” he says.

She smiles faintly. “They both have.”

He huffs quietly.

“I give it six months before the world figures it out properly.”

“Probably less.”

They fall into a comfortable silence.

Then—

“I like her,” he says.

“I know.”

“She’s calm.”

“She’s strong.”

“She doesn’t seem impressed by him.”

Cisca grins. “That’s why he likes her.”

“About time,” he repeats softly.

And this time, it’s said with pride.

—

Adam lies on his back staring at the ceiling.

Behati turns on the lamp.

“Well?” she asks.

He exhales.

“Well what?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t have commentary.”

He turns his head slightly toward her in the dim light.

“I was waiting.”

“For?”

“For her to say it out loud.”

Behati smiles softly.

They lie there for a moment, listening to the distant hum of the house.

“We both saw it coming,” Behati says.

“Yes.”

“When?”

He thinks back.

“That christmas morning,” he says. “When they were cleaning.”

Behati laughs quietly. “That’s your romantic origin story? Recycling?”

“It wasn’t about recycling.”

She props herself up on one elbow, amused.

“It was about the way she wasn’t bracing,” he says.

That softens her expression.

“She’s not guarded around him,” she says.

“No.”

“Does that scare you?”

He pauses.

“…A little.”

Behati reaches over and threads her fingers through his.

“She doesn’t give her heart to people easily.”

“I know,”

She squeezes his hand.

“And he looks at her like she’s not something to win.”

Adam turns his head slightly.

“What gave it away to you?”

“She mentioned this boy,” she says. “Very casually.”

Adam smiles already. “Oh no.”

“Oh yes,” she continues. “She said she wasn't sure if he was ‘just a good friend.’”

He raises an eyebrow. “Just a good friend.”

“Mm-hm.”

“And?”

“She said she liked talking to him.”

There’s a dramatic pause.

“Louise? She? Liked talking?” he repeats, incredulous.

“Voluntarily,” she confirms.

Adam gasps softly. “Oh, she was gone.”

“Completely.”

“She tried to sound analytical about it,” she adds. “You know that tone she uses when she’s pretending something is strategic.”

He nods immediately. “The detached one.”

“Yes. Except she used the phrase ‘I just… feel calm when we talk.’”

Behati drops back onto her pillow.

“Oh, that’s fatal.”

“I knew then.”

She laughs quietly into the dark.

“She never ‘just talks’ to people,” Adam says. “She schedules, she filters, she evaluates.”

“Exactly.”

“And she liked talking.” she says. “With no agenda,”

Adam turns her face toward him again, eyes soft.

“You must’ve panicked.”

“I absolutely panicked. On the inside.”

She smiles knowingly.

“She’s always been so careful,” Behati says. “If she was letting herself enjoy something that simple…”

“…it meant it wasn’t simple,” he finishes.

They share a look in the dim light.

“Right?!” she whispers, half-laughing.

“Right.”

They lie in quiet for a moment longer.

Then—

“Finally,” Adam says softly.

“I thought we weren’t supposed to meddle.”

“We didn’t,” she replies calmly. “We just observed.”

He considers that.

“I like him,” she adds.

He groans quietly. “Don’t say that.”

“Why?”

“Because now I have to admit I do too.”

She laughs, pressing a kiss to his shoulder.

“Took you long enough,” she murmurs.

He shakes his head.

“They’re going to be insufferable.”

“They already are.”

He smiles despite himself.

⸻

Between Christmas and New Year

The days between Christmas and New Year always feel unmoored.

Like time is holding its breath—caught between what’s already happened and whatever comes next. Schedules dissolve. Expectations blur. The world feels briefly less demanding, like it’s giving everyone permission to drift.

Louise feels it most in the mornings.

New York is gray and humming outside the windows, the city already leaning forward, already impatient. Taxis hiss over wet pavement. Somewhere below, a delivery truck backfires. The sky is low and pale, undecided.

She’s curled on the couch in her parents’ apartment, socked feet tucked under her, one of her mum’s throw blankets pulled up around her shoulders. Her phone is balanced on her knee, charger stretched taut across the floor.

Lando’s face fills the screen.

He’s somewhere warm—she can tell immediately by the color of the light, the way it softens the edges of him. He’s in a loose T-shirt, collar stretched just enough to look lived in, hair still damp like he’s just come in from outside or the ocean. There’s a brightness to him that isn’t England.

“Okay,” she says, narrowing her eyes. “You’re not in England anymore.”

He grins, unapologetic. “Caught.”

“Where are you?”

“Back in Monaco, briefly,” he says. “Heading to one last trip with the guys. I’m in need of somewhere loud, warm, and slightly chaotic before the year ends.”

She hums, watching the way he leans closer to the camera like he always does, like distance is something he can cheat if he concentrates hard enough. “That tracks.”

“And you?” he asks. “What’s the plan?”

Louise shrugs, rolling onto her side, cheek pressed into the cushion. “I… don’t actually know.”

He blinks. Once. “What do you mean you don’t know?”

“My dad handled the logistics,” she says. “My mum packed my suitcase like usual. I was told to show up at the airport and not ask questions.”

“That is,” he says solemnly, “genuinely terrifying.”

She laughs, the sound soft and sleepy. “I trust them. Mostly.”

There’s a pause.

Not awkward. Just quieter.

She picks at the cuff of her sleeve, eyes drifting to the window. “I’m a little sad we won’t see each other.”

His expression changes immediately. The grin fades into something more intent, more present. “Yeah,” he says. “Me too.”

For a beat, neither of them tries to fill the space.

Then he tilts his head, mischief flickering back in like a familiar shield. “I mean—technically—I’m the only one who has the right to complain about not getting my New Year’s kiss again.”

Her brows lift. “Excuse you?”

“Two years in a row,” he says gravely. “At this point it’s a pattern. I should file a formal complaint.”

She smiles, but it wobbles at the edges. “I would kiss you if I could.”

“I know,” he says softly. “That’s why I’m only pretending to be dramatic.”

She presses her lips together, warmth spreading through her chest, a little undone by how easily he sees her.

“Promise me something,” he adds.

“What?”

“Wherever you end up… look up at midnight.”

She nods without hesitation. “You too.”

They hang up a few minutes later, both pretending it doesn’t sting more than they expected.

—

Louise arrives first.

The resort is all soft light and ocean air, tucked into the cliffs like it’s trying not to be found. Nothing about it announces itself. The entrance is almost deliberately understated—just a narrow road that winds down through low greenery before opening, quietly, into something expansive.

Stone paths curve instead of cutting straight, guiding rather than directing. Linen curtains drift in and out of open archways, breathing with the sea breeze. Somewhere, water moves—not loudly, not for attention, just enough to remind you that it’s there.

Louise wakes slowly, blinking into it, her body taking a second longer than usual to catch up with where she is.

For a moment, she just lies there.

Listening.

Nothing urgent presses in. No notifications. No mental checklist already halfway formed.

Just space.

She exhales, long and steady, and lets herself stay there a few minutes longer before getting up.

She wanders around with no destination, no route she’s trying to follow. Just curiosity, moving her forward in small, quiet decisions—this path instead of that one, this turn because the light looks better there, this direction because she hasn’t seen it yet.

The resort reveals itself slowly when you don’t rush it.

Terraced gardens that step down toward the sea. Small sitting areas tucked into corners like afterthoughts. A pool that blends so seamlessly into the horizon it feels more like an extension of the ocean than something built.

Then, out of habit more than intention, she glances at the welcoming dock that stretches out into the water. The wood is sun-warmed, the surface worn smooth in places from years of quiet use.

And then—

Movement.

She turns slightly, attention catching on the far end of the dock where a small group is making their way up from the lower platform where boats usually come in.

At first, it’s just shapes.

Silhouettes against the brighter water behind them.

But then they step fully into the light.

And recognition hits.

Not all at once.

In pieces.

A familiar posture. The way someone carries their shoulders. The rhythm of a walk she’s seen too many times to mistake.

Her gaze sharpens slightly, focusing.

There’s a laugh—carried faintly on the wind—and that’s what does it.

Not the faces.

The sound.

She knows that sound.

Louise stills without meaning to, her weight shifting subtly as she watches them come closer, her brain catching up in small, quiet recalculations.

She doesn’t tell him.

Not because it’s a secret—but because something in her wants to let it exist unobserved for a moment. Like a rare alignment she doesn’t want to scare off by naming. Like if she speaks it too soon, it might vanish.

That night, he texts.

Lando: this place is chaos

Louise: you thrive in chaos

Lando: I thrive in you

Louise: go enjoy life

Lando: I am allowed to miss my girlfriend

She smiles into her pillow, pressing her face into the cool sheets.

Louise: dramatic

Lando: accurate

Over the next two days, he keeps complaining lightly—about bad cocktails, loud music, the way his friends insist on group photos that never end up framed.

She responds with restraint.

hydrate

touch grass

consider joy

He sends a voice note that sounds like a sigh pretending to be a joke. She listens to it twice, once just to hear his voice, once to catalog the way he’s smiling even when he claims he’s not.

Still, she doesn’t tell him.

—

New Year’s Eve arrives wrapped in gold and noise.

The resort glows—lanterns strung low, fire pits crackling, music drifting in soft waves instead of pounding. People gather in clusters dressed in whites and deep blues and dark silks that catch the light.

Louise stays with her group for most of the evening. She’s polite. Present. Distant in that way she gets when she’s waiting for something she hasn’t scheduled.

Fireworks begin just before midnight.

Everyone counts down together.

Ten.

Nine.

Eight.

She feels it before she decides.

At six, she slips away.

At five, she moves faster.

She cuts along the edge of the crowd, heart steady, steps sure. She knows where he’ll be without knowing how she knows—near the far terrace, away from the loudest noise, pretending not to watch the sky too closely.

She finds him exactly there.

A little apart. Head tilted back. Fireworks reflecting faintly in his eyes—

—and then she’s there, fingers curling into his sleeve.

He turns.

Freezes.

“Lou—?”

She doesn’t let him finish.

She pulls him toward her, past the lanterns, past the low wall, into a quiet pocket of shadow where the fireworks are still visible but the world feels suddenly far away.

Two.

His hands come up instinctively, hovering like he’s afraid she might disappear if he moves too fast.

“Is this—?” he starts.

Then his hands are at her waist, solid, certain. “Are you real?”

She laughs, breathless, forehead brushing his. “You said you deserved your kiss.”

One.

Fireworks explode overhead.

She kisses him.

Soft at first. Then certain. Like they’ve been holding their breath all year and finally let it go.

When they pull back, he rests his forehead against hers, laughing quietly, stunned.

“You absolute menace,” he murmurs.

She grins. “Happy New Year.”

“Best one yet,” he says, and kisses her again—this time slower, unhurried, like there’s nothing left to prove.

Behind them, the world celebrates.

But right there, in the corner they carved out just for themselves, the year begins exactly the way it was always meant to.

—

The morning after New Year’s arrives gently.

No countdowns. No music. Just salt air and the sound of water somewhere below the cliffs, moving like it always has, unimpressed by human calendars.

Louise wakes slowly. Her brain is quiet in a way that feels earned, not empty. She sits on the edge of the bed for a moment, letting it settle.

She doesn’t text him.

Neither of them do.

It’s unspoken, but clear: we’ll see what the day does.

—

They cross paths by accident.

Or something close enough to it that neither of them argues with the story.

Louise is walking back from breakfast, hair still damp, barefoot because she refuses shoes before noon. She’s scrolling absently, not really reading anything, when a laugh cuts across the path—familiar, bright, unmistakably his.

She looks up.

He’s coming toward her with a group—six, maybe seven people, sunburned and loud and relaxed in the way only people who slept badly but happily can be. One of them is mid-story, gesturing too broadly. Another is carrying two coffees and already regretting it.

Lando sees her at the same time.

There’s a microsecond where his face does something honest—soft surprise, warmth, the echo of last night still bright behind his eyes.

Then he remembers where they are. Who’s watching. They both adjust seamlessly. He slows, just a fraction. She stops entirely.

“Morning,” he says, easy.

“Hi,” she replies, matching his tone.

Not distant. Not intimate. Balanced.

One of his friends clocks the shift immediately. “Oh—hey,” she says to Louise, curious.

Lando clears his throat. “Uh—this is Louise.”

She nods once, polite. “Hi.”

“This is… everyone,” he gestures vaguely, which earns him a shove in the arm.

Introductions ripple outward. Names exchanged. Small talk settles in like a well-worn coat.

Lando snorts before he can stop himself.

She flicks him a look—fond, quick, gone.

Someone else raises an eyebrow. “You two seem… familiar.”

Lando answers before Louise can. “Same grid.”

She nods in agreement. “Same insomnia.”

That satisfies them. Mostly.

They walk together toward the terrace—Louise drifting slightly to the edge of the group, Lando unconsciously adjusting his pace so she doesn’t fall behind or pull ahead. It’s subtle enough that no one calls it out. Obvious enough that his friends start watching more closely.

At one point, someone asks, “You staying long?”

Louise glances at Lando before answering. Not for permission. For calibration.

“A few days,” she says. “You?”

“Same,” he replies.

Their eyes meet for half a second longer than necessary.

Then he looks away first.

Later, as the group disperses—some toward the pool, others toward activities Louise has no interest in—she and Lando end up walking side by side again, temporarily unobserved.

He keeps his hands in his pockets.

She keeps hers wrapped around a glass of water she hasn’t touched.

“That went well,” he says quietly.

“We didn’t break anything,” she agrees.

“Low bar.”

“Historically challenging.”

He smiles, then reins it in.

“Thank you,” he adds, more softly.

“For what?”

“For… making it easy.”

She considers that. “You make it easy too.”

They stop at a fork in the path. One direction leads to her building. The other to his.

He hesitates, then says, carefully, “Breakfast tomorrow?”

She nods. “Public place.”

“Obviously.”

“Accidental again?”

“Tragically.”

They share a look—amused, steady, full of things they’re not saying. Then they part. Like people who chose each other—and are patient enough to keep choosing, even when the world is watching.

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