summary: You‘re attending BU and your boyfriend has come back into town just in time for Marmon which ends with a little tipsy Macklin
warnings: underaged drinking ig but cmon he‘s canadian…
masterlist
The music is loud enough that it sort of blurs into the background, bass thumping through the floorboards of the frat house while sunlight pours in through half-open windows. It’s too early in the day for this level of chaos, but it’s Boston Marathon Monday, which means nobody cares.
You’re wedged between your friends in the kitchen, red cup in hand, laughing at something that probably isn’t even that funny anymore. The air smells like cheap beer and sweat and something citrusy someone spilled twenty minutes ago. Every few seconds, someone shouts, someone stumbles, someone starts chanting for no reason.
Mack had been fine earlier.
More than fine actually. Annoyingly charming, a little buzzed, arm slung around your shoulders while he kept pressing quick kisses into your hair like he had to make sure you’re real, after having been away from you for so long. Then he’d gotten dragged off by his brother and a group of guys chanting something about a keg, and you’d just laughed, letting him go.
That had been… a while ago.
Your phone buzzes in your hand, but you ignore it for the moment, still mid-conversation, until someone bumps into you hard enough that your drink sloshes over the rim.
“Okay,” you laugh, stepping back, already excusing yourself from your friends. “I’m gonna go find him before he—”
You don’t even finish the sentence before you spot him. Across the living room, trying, and failing, to walk in a straight line.
You immediately start laughing.
“Macklin—” you push through people just in time to catch him as he stumbles over absolutely nothing, your hands grabbing his arms before he can faceplant into the hardwood.
“Whoa, okay,” you steady him, biting back a grin as he blinks down at you, eyes glassy and unfocused.
“Oh,” he breathes, like he just discovered something incredible. “There you are.”
His grip on you tightens instantly, like he’s afraid you might disappear again.
You take him in properly now. His cheeks flushed, eyes bloodshot, hair sticking to his forehead with sweat despite the fact it’s barely 40 degrees outside. He looks like an absolute mess.
“What happened to you?” you laugh, pushing his damp hair back from his forehead.
He groans, letting his head tip forward until it drops onto your shoulder, his full weight leaning into you. “Someone made me do a keg stand,” he mumbles into your collarbone.
“Someone?” you repeat skeptically.
“I was peer pressured,” he insists weakly. “It was aggressive.”
You huff a laugh, adjusting your stance so he doesn’t drag you down with him while your fingers absentmindedly comb through his hair again, brushing it back as he stays tucked into you, eyes closed now like he might fall asleep right there.
“Why are you handling this better?” he mutters after a second, voice muffled. “It’s not fair.”
You grin, tilting your head slightly so your cheek rests against his hair. “I’m in my third year of college while you’re off ripping up the NHL,” you say. “Of course I’m better at drinking than you.”
He makes a soft, offended noise but doesn’t argue, just burrows closer.
Your phone buzzes again in your hand.
You shift slightly, pulling it out while still holding him up with your other arm.
A message from Will pops up.
Will: Why’s Mack doing keg stands and why’s he terrible at it????
You barely have time to process that before another message comes through, a link.
You tap it.
The video loads, and within two seconds you’re laughing so hard you almost lose your balance.
It’s Mack.
Upside down or more like horizontal.
Completely unstable, legs flailing while two guys try to hold him up.
You clap a hand over your mouth, shoulders shaking as you try not to laugh directly into his ear.
“What?” he mumbles, not lifting his head.
“Nothing,” you say, failing to sound convincing as you glance down at him, still half-asleep against you.
You tilt the phone slightly, showing him the paused frame of him upside down, hoodie riding up, expression completely gone.
He squints at it.
“…that’s not me.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Mack.”
He stares at it another second, then groans, dragging a hand over his face. “Okay, that might be me.”
You laugh, shoulders shaking, thumb hovering over the screen as you replay the clip for half a second before stopping it again.
“You know you’re supposed to be in a handstand while doing this?” you tease, turning the phone slightly toward him.
He blinks at it, then at you, expression offended in a way only drunk people can manage. “Not my fault they can’t hold me,” he slurs, like that’s a completely reasonable defense.
“Yeah,” you grin, locking your phone and slipping it back into your pocket, “I’m sure it’s entirely their fault.”
He huffs softly but doesn’t argue, immediately going back to hiding in your shoulder like if he just refuses to acknowledge it, the whole thing didn’t happen at all.
“I missed you,” he mumbles quietly after a beat, voice softer now, less sloppy.
Your expression softens a little, your hand settling at the back of his neck. “Yeah?”
He nods against you. “A lot.”
For a second, the chaos around you fades a bit. The music, the shouting, the mess of bodies packed into the house.
You press a quick kiss to his temple, smiling to yourself.
“Next time,” you murmur, “maybe skip the keg stand.”
He hums, already half gone again. “No promises.”
For a second you think he might actually drift off right there, his weight heavy against you, his breathing evening out just slightly but then his fingers tighten in the fabric of your hoodie, grounding himself again before he can fully disappear.
“Stay with me,” he mutters, voice quieter now, a little more real than the slurred teasing from a second ago, like that one thought managed to cut through everything else.
Your expression softens just a touch at that, your hand steady at his side.
“I am,” you murmur back, adjusting your grip on him so he doesn’t tip over. “Can’t let you get dragged into more frat activities.”
You laugh under your breath, shifting your grip so you can pull him upright again, one hand firm on his arm when he sways a little too far to the side. “You okay though?”
He squints like he’s trying to focus on something very far away, then gives a loose shrug. “Whole world is spinning,” he admits, words running together just slightly. “And I lost track of what and how much I drank, which is like… the exact thing you shouldn’t.”
“Yeah,” you snort, “that’s kind of rule number one.”
He nods seriously, like he’s just been given groundbreaking information.
“Okay, come on,” you say, tugging gently on his hand. “Let’s get you some water.”
He lets you lead him without protest, trailing behind you through the crowded hallway and back into the kitchen, where your friends are still posted up, leaning against counters and yelling over each other.
The second they see you and more specifically him, their faces light up.
“Oh my god,” one of them laughs. “What happened to him?”
“You look rough,” another adds, grinning.
Mack lifts his head just enough to squint at them, like he’s trying to figure out if they’re real.
You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling, guiding him over to the counter and grabbing a bottle of water. “Hey,” you say, nudging his shoulder lightly, “be nice.”
You crack the cap and hand it to him, keeping your hand under it for a second to make sure he actually has it before letting go.
“God forbid the superstar wants to be a frat boy for a day,” you add, shooting your friends a look.
That just makes them laugh harder.
“Superstar can’t even stand,” your best friend shoots back.
“I’m standing,” Mack mumbles defensively, even though he’s very clearly leaning most of his weight into the counter now.
“Barely,” you mutter under your breath, but there’s no bite to it.
He takes a slow sip of water, like he’s concentrating way too hard on the act of drinking, then exhales like it took effort.
Right as you reach to take the bottle back and make sure he keeps going, a familiar voice cuts in.
“Well,” Aiden says, amused, “this is a sight.”
You turn your head, immediately spotting him pushing into the kitchen, one look at his brother and he’s already grinning.
“You good there, little bro?” he laughs, taking in the flushed face, the messy hair, the general disaster that is Mack right now.
Mack just squints at him. “I was doing fine,” he insists, which, objectively, is not true.
You point at Aiden accusingly, eyebrows lifting. “Why’d you leave him alone?”
Aiden raises both hands in mock defense. “I didn’t leave him, he wandered off,” he says. “Next thing I know he’s upside down and people are chanting his name.”
You take the bottle from Mack for a second, so he doesn’t take too much at once, before pressing it into his hand again. “Drink more.”
He obeys this time without argument, slower but steady, his shoulder bumping into yours as he leans closer again.
Aiden watches the two of you for a second, grin turning a little softer. “You got him?” he asks.
You glance at Mack, who’s now half-focused on not spilling water on himself.
“Yeah,” you say simply. “I’ve got him.”
Mack hums like he heard that, his head tipping back toward your shoulder again, a little less unsteady this time.
“Don’t let them flip me again,” he mutters.
You laugh quietly, steadying him with a hand at his side. “I won’t.”
From across the kitchen, one of your friends calls out, “Round two later?”
You don’t even hesitate. “Absolutely not.”
Mack lifts his head just enough to nod in agreement. “Retired,” he mumbles.
You shake your head, smiling despite yourself, keeping a steady grip on him as the noise swells around you again but this time, he doesn’t drift away.
Beside you, Aiden pulls his phone out absentmindedly, glancing down at the screen and then immediately freezes.
“…oh no,” he breathes, before a grin starts creeping in.
“What?” you ask, glancing over.
He turns the phone slightly so you can see.
Five missed calls.
Dad.
And a string of messages underneath:
Dad: Why‘s Mack at a BU party??
Dad: Why’s he on top of a keg??
Dad: Where are you? Where’s yn??
Aiden snorts, dragging a hand down his face, half amused, half already bracing for it.
“Shiiiit,” he laughs.
Mack, still leaning into you, barely lifts his head. “Don’t answer,” he mumbles.
Aiden looks at him, then back at his phone.
“…yeah,” he says, slipping it back into his pocket. “I’m gonna give that like… an hour.”
summary: your brother scores the olympic winning goal and while you feel elevated, a part of your heart shatters when you see mack across the ice and you want nothing more than to grab some ice cream and hold him until the hurt disappears
The arena is still roaring when it happens, the kind of sound that feels like it lives inside your chest instead of just around you, your hands pressed over your mouth as you watch the replay flash across the screens again and again, Jack’s overtime goal sealing it, gold for Team USA.
You don’t even remember moving at first, just suddenly you’re on your feet with everyone else, screaming, laughing, your heart racing so fast it almost hurts. The jersey on your back feels heavier now, your last name stretched across it, and the thin chain around your neck shifts when you move, the little “M” pendant resting right against the fabric like it belongs there.
And for a moment, you let yourself celebrate.
You really do.
But then your eyes drift, almost against your will, across the ice, past the pile of red, white, and blue, to the scattered red jerseys on the other side. And you find him without trying.
Macklin stands a little apart, helmet off, hair damp, chest rising and falling as he stares out at nothing in particular. There’s no anger in his expression, not really, just something quieter, heavier, the kind of disappointment that settles deep.
And it hits you all at once, sharp and disorienting, how strange this is. How you’re supposed to feel like you’re on top of the world right now, and instead there’s this pull in your chest dragging you in the opposite direction.
You don’t think about it too long after that.
You slip away while the celebration swallows everyone else, weaving through the back halls with your head down, your credentials flashing just enough to keep people from stopping you, even though one of the security guys definitely gives you a look that says he should probably question this more than he is. You almost laugh under your breath, thinking you should scold him later for letting just anyone wander into the Olympic locker room corridor, but you keep going.
The sound of your team celebrating echoes from far down the hallway, loud and distant now, like it belongs to a completely different world. You slow when you reach the corner near the Canadian locker room, your hands tugging absently at the hem of your jersey before you force yourself to still. You don’t really have a plan beyond this point. You just wait.
A few players start to file out eventually, some fresh from the showers, some still in partial gear, and you can feel their eyes on you as they pass.
You recognize a few of them, and they definitely recognize you, the jersey giving you away instantly, but no one says anything. It’s more curiosity than anything else, maybe a little confusion. Still, you don’t move.
Not until he appears.
Macklin slows the second he sees you, like he wasn’t expecting it, like he thought he’d be able to get through this part of the night without anything else hitting him.
You straighten a little, your fingers brushing the pendant at your neck without even realizing it, and for a second you’re not sure what he needs, what you’re allowed to be in this moment, so you don’t say anything at all.
You just wait.
And that’s enough.
Because the second he gets closer, the composure slips, and he doesn’t hesitate anymore, just steps into you and folds, his arms wrapping around you as he presses his face into your shoulder.
The force of it makes you rock back slightly, but you steady both of you, your arms coming up around him instantly, holding him tight like you can take some of the weight off him if you just don’t let go.
“It’s okay,” you murmur softly, even though you know it’s not, your hand sliding up to the back of his neck, fingers threading into his damp hair as you pull him closer.
A couple of his teammates pass by, quieter now than they were earlier, and you feel rather than see one of them slow. When you glance up, Sidney Crosby is looking right at you, something knowing in his expression. He smiles, small but genuine, and you return it without thinking, your hold on Macklin tightening just slightly.
“She’s a good one, kid,” he says as he continues walking, his tone easy, like he’s just stating a fact.
Macklin lets out a quiet breath against you, something between a huff and a laugh, and pulls back just enough to look at you, his hands still resting at your waist.
“Secrets out now, huh,” he mutters, his voice rough, his gaze flicking over your face before it drops to your jersey.
You see the moment his expression shifts.
He grimaces slightly, not at you, never at you, but at what you’re wearing, what it represents right now, and his grip tightens for a second before he exhales again. “I wanna rip this off of you,” he says under his breath, shaking his head a little, then adds quickly, “and not in a sexual way.”
Despite everything, a small, soft smile pulls at your lips.
“I’m sorry, baby,” you reply quietly, your fingers lifting to the chain around your neck, gently pulling the pendant forward so it rests between you, catching his attention. “I didn’t think it would feel like this.”
His eyes drop to the “M,” and just like that, something in his expression softens, the tension easing out of his shoulders inch by inch. You keep holding it there, right in his line of sight, your thumb brushing over it lightly, grounding him in something that belongs to both of you instead of either team.
And then he leans down.
It’s slow, deliberate, his forehead almost brushing yours first before his lips press softly against the pendant, then your fingers, lingering there for just a second longer than necessary. When he pulls back, there’s the faintest hint of a smile, tired and a little crooked, but real.
And this time when he looks at you, it doesn’t feel like you’re on opposite sides anymore.
“What’s the plan for tonight?” you ask him softly, your voice quieter now that the initial wave of everything has passed, your hands still resting against his chest like you’re not quite ready to let go.
Macklin lets out a breath, his eyes flicking away for a second before coming back to you, and there’s something tired in the way he smiles.
“I should ask you,” he replies, his tone light but not quite reaching his eyes, and then he shrugs a little, like he’s already resigned himself to whatever the night is supposed to be. “Probably ice cream, a sad movie, and sleep,” he adds, huffing faintly, like he knows exactly how pathetic that sounds but doesn’t have the energy to dress it up.
Your expression softens, because you know him well enough to hear everything he isn’t saying.
“I know you wanna go out with your brothers,” he continues after a second, his hands dropping from your waist even though he doesn’t step away, like he’s forcing himself to create just a little distance.
“I don’t want you to feel like you have to walk on eggshells around me,” he says, his voice steadier now, more deliberate. “Go. I get it. It’s a big night… especially for Jack.”
The way he says it, careful and controlled, makes your chest tighten, because you know it costs him something to be this understanding right now.
You don’t argue or try to convince him otherwise.
Instead, you lean in and kiss him, soft and lingering, your hand sliding up to cup his cheek as you press your lips to his, hoping he can feel everything you’re trying to say without words. He exhales into it, one of his hands coming back to your waist for just a second like he can’t help it, like letting go of you completely isn’t something he’s capable of yet.
When you pull back, your forehead rests briefly against his.
“I’ll see you later,” you murmur.
He nods, even though neither of you really knows what “later” is supposed to look like tonight.
By the time you meet up with your brothers, the energy is completely different.
Loud, chaotic, overwhelming in the best way.
You barely make it through the door before Jack is already on you, grinning like he might actually be incapable of feeling anything but pure joy right now, his arm slung around your shoulders as he pulls you into him.
“We did it,” he keeps saying, like it still hasn’t fully sunk in, like if he repeats it enough it’ll finally feel real, and you can’t help but laugh, your arms wrapping around him just as tight.
“I noticed,” you tease, your voice warm, even as he spins you slightly, already a little unsteady on his feet.
“Okay, he’s been like this for an hour,” Quinn cuts in from nearby, though he’s smiling just as much, even if he’s pretending to be the composed one. “Actually, scratch that, longer.”
Jack ignores him completely, of course, already dragging you further inside, where the rest of the team, families, and friends have taken over a section of the club. The music is loud enough that it settles into your bones, the lights flashing, people dancing, laughing, celebrating like this is the only moment that exists.
And for a while, you let it be.
You have a drink, then another, the buzz settling in just enough to loosen everything that’s been wound tight in your chest all night.
You dance with the girls, with the other WAGs, spinning and laughing under the lights, your jersey swapped out for something lighter but still unmistakably Team USA. Every now and then someone pulls you into a hug, another round of congratulations, another reminder of what tonight means.
Your brothers find you again not long after, louder now, looser, Jack especially completely gone in the best way, his arm thrown around you as he tries to get you to dance with him.
“You have to admit,” he says, leaning in way too close to be heard over the music, “this is a pretty good night.”
You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling, your hands coming up to steady him as he nearly loses his balance mid-step. “Yeah, Jack,” you laugh, shaking your head. “I think it might be.”
And you do have fun.
You dance until your feet start to ache, you laugh until your stomach hurts, you let yourself get pulled into every chaotic, loud, ridiculous moment your brothers create, because you know how rare this is, how special it is. The kind of night they’ll talk about for years, the kind you don’t get back once it’s gone.
So you stay in it.
Even if, every once in a while, your fingers brush the pendant at your neck without you realizing it, and your mind flickers, just briefly, to a quiet room somewhere else, to a boy who chose ice cream and a sad movie instead of this.
And for a split second, in the middle of all the noise and light and celebration, the contrast settles in your chest again.
But then Jack is pulling you back into the moment, spinning you around with a laugh that’s impossible to ignore, and you let yourself be here, fully, because tonight belongs to them too.
The music is still loud when you finally pull away from the crowd, but it feels distant now, like it’s happening in another room instead of all around you. The floor tilts just slightly under your feet, not enough to make you stumble, just enough to remind you you’ve had a few drinks more than you planned.
You scan the room until you spot your brothers, tucked into a corner with a few teammates, Jack mid-story with his hands flying everywhere while Quinn watches him with that familiar mix of amusement and disbelief.
You slip in beside them, brushing a hand against Quinn’s arm to get his attention first. “Hey,” you say, leaning closer so you don’t have to shout as much, though your voice still comes out softer, a little looser than usual. “I think I’m gonna call it a night.”
Quinn’s eyes flick over your face for about half a second before something clicks, and the corner of his mouth lifts slightly. He doesn’t even have to ask, but he does anyway, quieter than the rest of the room. “You’re going to see him.”
It’s not a question.
Jack, who definitely catches that, turns immediately, his expression shifting just a little, the excitement still there but tempered now with something more aware. “How is he?” he asks, and for once there’s no teasing in his voice.
You shrug, the movement small, honest. “I don’t know. Not great.”
There’s a brief pause, the kind that feels heavier than it should in the middle of a celebration like this, and then Quinn nods, reaching out to squeeze your shoulder. “Go be with him,” he says simply.
Jack follows it up with a softer, “Yeah. He needs you,” before nudging you lightly, like he’s sending you off.
You smile at them both, something grateful in it, and then you slip back out into the night.
The air outside is cooler, grounding, and by the time you make your way toward the village, you’ve got a small plan forming.
You stop at a little ice cream shop that’s still open, leaning slightly against the counter as you order, your words just a touch slurred but understandable, and you end up leaving with a ridiculously large tub of Macklin’s favorite flavor, the cold seeping into your fingers through the container.
The walk to his building feels familiar, your steps automatic at this point, and by the time you reach his floor, the world has steadied just enough.
You adjust your grip on the ice cream, take a breath, and knock.
There’s a beat.
Then the door opens.
Macklin stands there in sweats and a hoodie, hair still slightly damp, like he showered and hasn’t done much since, and the surprise on his face is immediate. It softens just as quickly, something warmer settling in underneath it.
“I brought ice cream,” you offer, holding it up a little, your voice giving away just how much you’ve had to drink.
He stares at you for a second, and then he can’t help it, a smile breaking through, small but real. “Good party?” he asks, leaning against the doorframe.
You roll your eyes, brushing past him into the room like you’ve done it a hundred times, the familiarity of it settling over you instantly.
“Mm, yeah, they’re insufferable,” you mumble, setting the ice cream down somewhere nearby as you kick your shoes off.
You barely get another step before his hand catches your waist, steady and warm, and in one smooth motion he turns you back toward him. The movement makes you laugh under your breath, but it fades quickly when he leans in and kisses you, soft at first, then a little firmer, like he’s been needing that more than he realized.
When he pulls back, his forehead brushes yours for a second.
“Thank you,” he murmurs, his voice quieter now, more grounded than before.
You smile, your hands resting lightly against his chest, and before you can say anything else, he gives your waist a light clap, guiding you backward toward the bed. “Go on,” he says, a hint of amusement slipping back in. “Sit before you fall over.”
You scoff softly but listen, dropping onto the edge of the bed and pulling your legs up underneath you, already reaching for the ice cream again.
“What movie are we watching?” he asks as he moves around the room, grabbing spoons, settling in beside you.
“I vote for Zootopia,” you say immediately, like you’ve already decided. He pauses, glancing at you with a raised brow. “That’s not sad.”
“I know,” you reply, pointing at him with the spoon, a small, tipsy smile on your lips. “Exactly. You need some comedy right now.”
He studies you for a second, something soft and fond in his expression, and then he exhales, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little more.
“Yeah,” he admits, reaching over to take the ice cream from you for a second so he can open it. “Yeah, I think you’re right.”
You lean into his side as the movie starts, your head finding its place against his shoulder like it always does, and this time, when he wraps an arm around you, it feels lighter.
The pressure of the Olympics, the disappointment of the loss fading, being replaced by the feeling of your body pressed to his.
“I love you,“ he mutters into your hair, lightly pressing a kiss against your head.
yn‘s instagram
tagged: jackhughes, _quinnhughes
yn: so so proud of these stupid idots
comments:
jackhughes: wow thanks for those beautiful pictures
_quinnhughes: very favorable, thanks
user1: this is straight out of a movie
user2: main character family fr
yn: my monkeys my circus
user3: not a thought behind those eyes
yn: they‘re idiots but they’re MY idiots
user4: imagine growing up with THIS talent around you
yn: thanks i‘ll ask them what it was like having such a talented sister
user2: she‘s too iconic
user5: no but the childhood pic?? i’m emotional
user6: someone make them recreate pic 1 RIGHT NOW
yn: mom is probably writing this down as we speak
user7: mom really said let’s raise legends casually
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yn‘s instagram
tagged: mackcelebrini
yn: i love you always. i‘m so proud of you❤️🩹
comments:
mackcelebrini: ❤️
_willsmith2: finally omg
user1: WHAT THE HELLY
user2: when was she at a sharks game???
user3: this is so unexpected??
user4: hey i‘m y/n hughes, my brother just scored the olympic winning goal and i‘m dating macklin celebrini GIRL F U
yn: can’t believe this is life HA
user5: celebrini scoring on and off the ice
user6: this might be the cutest thing i’ve ever seen
summary: The aftermath of the Canadian Grand Prix, Lando thinks you surly must be on your brother side, turns out it‘s him you’re seeking out.
a/n: This wad requested but I honestly wanted to write something as well…
word count: 1.2k
The paddock was unusually quiet for a post-race Sunday. Reporters milled around, whispering into microphones and waiting for soundbites—headlines already half-written in their heads.
You’d seen it all from the McLaren hospitality suite. The attempted overtake. The slight misjudgment. The carbon fiber shower as Lando’s front wing made contact with Oscar’s rear tire. Oscar had somehow stayed in the race. Lando hadn’t.
Your stomach was still knotted.
You knew this wasn’t just any DNF. This was a mistake—on the record, and in front of the world. And worse, it was between teammates. One of whom was your brother. The other, your boyfriend.
You slipped past the usual bustle, ducking your McLaren pass into view to avoid the questions and curious glances. Drivers and engineers brushed past you like ghosts. The race was over, but no one was relaxed. Not after that incident.
You stopped outside Lando’s driver room, hesitating for just a second before raising your hand.
A soft knock echoed off the narrow corridor walls.
No answer.
You knocked again.
“Occupied,” came Lando’s voice, clipped, defensive. You could hear the zip of his race suit being peeled down. “If you’re here for Oscar’s damage report, you can save it.”
“I‘m not,” you said gently.
There was a pause. Then the door creaked open.
Lando stood there, shirtless, hair damp and curling around his forehead, cheeks flushed—not from the heat, but from something else. Frustration. Embarrassment. The way his eyes darted away from yours for a moment betrayed it. Like he wasn’t sure which version of you he was about to face—Oscar’s sister or his person.
You stepped in without waiting for an invitation, closing the door behind you.
“I thought you’d be with your brother,” he said quietly, turning his back to you as he pulled on a fresh shirt. He still didn’t look at you.
“I watched it happen,” you muttered, ignoring the question as you stepped closer, taking his arm with quiet insistence.
He gave a small laugh, one with no humor in it and pulled away from you. “Right. You watched me ruin both our races. DNF like a rookie. Get ready for the headlines: ‘Norris Cracks Under Pressure.’ ‘McLaren Civil War.’ ‘Lando vs Piastri: Round One.’”
You reached for his hand where it gripped the edge of the bench, knuckles white with tension. This time, he didn’t pull away, but he didn’t relax either. He just stood there, jaw tight, like he was waiting for a punch that never came.
“Hey,” you said, voice soft. “You didn’t ruin his race but I’m not here to talk about Oscar. I’m here for you.”
That made him look at you—really look at you. And what you saw there broke your heart a little. Hurt. Defensiveness. Self-doubt.
“You’re allowed to mess up, Lando,” you said. “You went for it. You thought you had the move. It happens. No one gets through a season clean—not even the championship contenders.”
“Except I wasn’t just fighting anyone,” he muttered. “I was fighting him. My teammate. Number one rule is not to crash and that’s what I did. What if he’s pissed? What if the team—hell, what if you—are pissed?” He broke off, jaw tightening. “The team’s probably annoyed as hell.”
You shook your head and gently cupped his cheek, your thumb brushing the still-damp edge of his hairline. His skin was cool against your touch, but the heat beneath it—his shame, his anger—was palpable.
“They’ll cool off,” you said. “Oscar’s okay. I talked to him, alright? He’s not mad, I promise. He gets it. He knows the margins are small out there. And I know you—this wasn’t some reckless ego move. You went for it. That’s what racers do.”
That finally earned a faint smirk from him. Barely there, but enough.
“He’s not made of glass, you know,” you added, your tone lightening just a little. “Though I wouldn’t mind if he started acting a bit more breakable sometimes. Would make family dinners more interesting.”
Lando let out a breath, and it sounded a little less heavy this time—like he’d let go of something he didn’t realize he was holding.
“Look,” you said, arms slipping around his waist as you rested your head against his chest. “The media will spin it. The fans will fight about it online. But that’s just noise. You know your intent. And I know you’d never do something like that out of spite.”
He rested his chin on your head, arms slowly circling your back.
“I just hate feeling like I messed everything up,” he mumbled. “Hate giving them something to rip apart.”
“Thanks,” he said against your hair. “For not making me feel like a total idiot.”
You smiled against his chest. “You’re not an idiot.”
“Debatable.”
“Shut up and hug me, Norris.”
Lando let out a quiet breath, the kind that sounded like it carried more than just exhaustion—relief, maybe, or something heavier that he didn’t know how to name. His arms tightened around you, pulling you close, anchoring himself in the only thing right in a day that had gone completely wrong.
He leaned back just slightly, just enough to see your face. His thumb brushed gently along your cheek, his touch featherlight. The look in his eyes was softer now—guard lowered, no cameras, no noise. Just you.
You reached up, fingertips resting at the base of his neck, and tilted your head.
He kissed you—slow, unhurried, like he needed to remember what it felt like to be okay. His lips moved against yours with quiet intention, not trying to prove anything or say too much—just asking for a moment of peace. A pause in the chaos. A second where it didn’t matter what the headlines said or how the race ended.
Just this.
Just you.
When you pulled away, barely an inch, he rested his forehead against yours, his breath mingling with yours in the space between.
“Do me a favor though? Next time you’re gonna crash into your championship rival, at least make sure he’s the one losing out.”
Lando laughed—really laughed this time. His eyes crinkled at the corners, and the tension finally seemed to bleed from his shoulders.
“You’re terrible,” he murmured. “You‘re talking about your brother here.“
“Exactly which is why I‘m allowed to say it,” you said, reaching up on your toes and pressing a gentle kiss to his lips, “and you love me anyway.”
Another chuckle, softer now. He kissed you again, slower this time, and when he pulled you fully into his arms, it felt like the world outside the driver room didn’t exist.
Lando Norris was always the definition of chaos—fast cars, faster nights, and flirty words that made headlines. But after a whirlwind summer filled with blurry club photos and mystery girls, McLaren’s golden boy had burned his halo.
His image was shattered. Sponsors pulled away. Commentators labeled him immature and unstable. The brand he’d built—charismatic, cheeky, adored—was crumbling into something else: a party boy who didn’t take his job seriously.
Across the globe, Y/n L/N was watching her carefully crafted legacy unravel as well. At only nineteen, she was already a living legend: two Golden Globes, one Emmy, and the youngest-ever Oscar winner.
But a single photograph—her leaving a restaurant late at night with the show’s 38-year-old married producer—sparked a fire she never saw coming.
The damage was done. And in Hollywood, gossip always travels faster than the truth.
Two PR nightmares. Two fading crowns.
One solution: date each other.
Publicly. Photogenically. Perfectly.
A clean, committed, headline-ready relationship, planned down to the finest detail.
The rules were simple:
Pap walks.
Subtle touches at race weekends or events.
And no real feelings.
Sneak Peak
You knew something was coming the moment your manager canceled your flight to Milan and booked a one-way ticket to London. No explanations, just a new itinerary and a three-word text: “It’s time. Emergency.”
And now here you are—on the 47th floor of a glass building that smells like money and panic—staring at a panel of lawyers, PR handlers, and your exhausted publicist.
You try to look composed. Polished. Innocent.
You’re wearing the blouse your stylist swore screamed “regretful but mature,” and you’ve been nodding along for the past twenty minutes, even though half of it makes your head spin.
But then they say it.
The actual plan.
And for a second, you genuinely think it’s a joke. A weird, late April Fools kind of thing. A bluff to make the real plan seem more reasonable.
“You want me to fake date…” You pause, blinking at the team of high-powered adults seated around you, “…a Formula One driver?”
You wait for someone to laugh. Or wince. Or clarify that they meant “someone from Formula One PR,” not one of the actual race-around-the-track boys. But no one does.
“Yes,” your PR head confirms with a tone that suggests she’s been up since 4 a.m. fielding firestorms about your reputation. “Lando Norris.”
You blink again. “Who?”
The reaction in the room is immediate. Someone coughs. Your manager looks mildly offended. Your assistant outright gawks like you just asked who Beyoncé is.
“British,” your assistant offers quickly, always eager to bridge the gap between your general indifference and the rest of the world’s obsessions. “Drives for McLaren. Millions of fans. Bit of a wild streak lately. Think… TikTok heartthrob meets sports headlines disaster.”
You frown, grabbing your phone from where it’s half-buried in the folds of your oversized sweater. A few quiet clicks, and you’ve got the search results.
Fast cars. Curly hair. A jawline that could cut glass.
Tabs full of him stumbling out of clubs and grinning like he owns the pavement.
There’s a smirk in almost every photo. Like he knows he’s getting away with something.
“He’s cute,” you murmur, more to yourself than anyone else.
“He’s a disaster,” your publicist snaps, cutting her eyes toward you. “Just like you, apparently.”
You look up slowly.
“The headlines aren’t kind. And we need something clean. Something controlled. Something that doesn’t involve married directors or shady dinner exits or—”
“And faking a relationship with a guy that a so called ‘disaster’ is clean?” you couldn’t help but ask. “That’s why we are the ones controlling the relationship,” your publicist snapped.
“I got it,” you say, holding up a hand. You already know the rest. You’ve been reading it for weeks now. Whispers turned wildfire. “Hollywood’s fallen angel. America’s sweetheart turned scandal.”
You sink deeper into the chair, feeling the plush leather swallow you up as you press your fingers against your temple.
A fake boyfriend.
A tabloid fantasy.
You’d really hoped you were past this kind of PR stunt — the fake romances, the media manipulation, the performative relationships designed to make your name trend for the right reasons. But the truth is, you’re nineteen with a career older than you are, and the sharks are still circling.
And you know exactly what this industry does to girls who become problems.
summary: After Lando's many escapes his team finally decides to get him a new pr manager or how he calls it a 'babysitter'. A relationship that's meant to be strictly professional but after a night out things happen that aren't to professional anymore
a/n: Final chapter!!
3.7k words
masterlist
Abu Dhabi - Final Race weekend
The paddock is tense in that eerie, electric way it only ever gets when something massive is at stake.
Championship weekend.
If Lando wins, he takes the whole thing. World Drivers’ Champion.
The kid who, just six months ago, everyone doubted—who posted shirtless photos from Monaco at 2AM, who laughed too loud, drove you mad with his moods and unpredictability, who sometimes felt like your biggest professional headache—
That kid might actually make history in less than twenty-four hours.
He’s quieter today. Focused, but not in a way that shuts people out. He greets engineers by name, shakes hands with hospitality staff. Smiles at a fan’s poster that says “Finally Lando’s Year.”
You watch him from a distance, badge around your neck, checklist in hand, every instinct reminding you to stay professional.
But your heart—God, your heart’s somewhere else.
The noise of the paddock hums around you, but in your chest, it’s all just silence and the pounding weight of everything unsaid.
But right now, standing next to him during post-quali interviews, you’d never know any of it.
Not the pressure. Not the weight. Not the history that could hinge on one race.
From the outside, he’s the image of calm.
He did what he needed to do—put it on the front row. On pole, even. A blistering lap. Clinical. Controlled.
The kind of performance that headlines will call statement-making. The kind that cements belief in the garage, in the fans, in the sport itself: he’s not the underdog anymore.
And yet, standing beside him now, you feel it.
Not nerves, exactly. Not fear.
Just… quiet.
The usual post-quali buzz—his bouncing foot, that smug grin he gives when he knows he’s nailed it, the way he teases the reporter or throws you a sideways look when they ask something ridiculous—it’s not there.
Instead, he’s composed to the point of stillness. Too still.
There’s a thread of something knotted behind his calm. Something tight.
Not outwardly visible—he hits every answer clean, voice steady, posture relaxed—but you can feel it in the slight twitch of his thumb against the seam of his race suit. The fraction of a second it takes him to answer.
The interviewer runs through the usual checklist—“How was the car? How’s the track evolving? Feeling good ahead of tomorrow?”—
And Lando handles it like he always does.
Smooth. Rehearsed. A flicker of a grin when needed.
But then comes the pivot. The real question.
“All eyes are on you, Lando. One win away from your first World Championship. What’s going through your mind?”
He doesn’t glance at you like he usually would. Doesn’t throw you a look to gauge how much to say.
Instead, he stares straight ahead, jaw clenched just a little too tight.
“Trying not to overthink it,” he says, voice low. “One more race. One more clean start. That’s all it is.”
He gives the answer the press wants. But you hear what he’s not saying. You always do.
And when it’s over, when the mics are dropped and the cameras click off, you step in to walk him back toward the garage, tablet in hand, headset slung over your shoulder. You’re close enough to be seen as his PR lead, but not close enough to feel like you were, even a few weeks ago.
Still, his voice is quiet when he says it, just for you.
“You didn’t say much.”
You glance over at him, expression unreadable. “Didn’t need to. You were solid.”
He exhales sharply through his nose, a short puff of air that doesn’t carry heat—just something else. Frustration. Not the loud kind. The quieter, heavier kind. The kind that builds over time and settles in your chest like weight.
Not frustration at the weekend.
Not the media.
At you.
At himself.
At this—the stretch of space you’ve both carved between each other, one silent inch at a time. A distance you’re both too proud or too scared to close, but too stubborn to walk away from.
The walk back to the garage is short, but it feels longer now. Your steps are in sync, out of habit more than intention, and you don’t say anything. Neither does he.
Not really.
When you reach the rear entrance, just before he steps in, he hesitates.
His hand lingers at the flap of the tent. His head tilts slightly like he’s weighing whether to speak or let it go. Then he asks, softly, like it’s not obvious:
“You’ll be there tomorrow?”
There’s a flicker in your expression—surprise, maybe. Or something deeper.
You nod, steady. “Always.”
And that should be enough. That is enough. But something keeps him still for a second longer.
He doesn’t respond. Doesn’t thank you. Doesn’t tease.
Just holds your gaze—eyes searching, almost vulnerable—for a beat too long, as if he’s waiting for you to change your mind.
Then, without a word, he turns and disappears through the flap.
And you’re left standing outside, heart aching with everything you didn’t say.
The moment the checkered flag falls, the world erupts.
The radio crackles with unfiltered joy—screams from his engineer, shouts from the pit wall, someone crying, someone swearing. The garage explodes into chaos: champagne already popping before he’s even crossed the line completely, mechanics vaulting over the pit wall like they can’t bear to wait another second.
On the screens above, the timing tower confirms it—P1. Race winner. World Champion.
And Lando—
Lando’s in the car, helmet still on, but even through the onboard camera you can see it: the way his shoulders shake with laughter, the way his hands stay clenched on the wheel like he’s not sure he can let go. His voice comes through the radio, broken and breathless.
“Are you serious?”
A pause. Then, louder—teary, stunned, euphoric.
“Are you fucking serious?!”
He’s laughing now. Half-laughing, half-crying. Completely wrecked by joy. His voice cracks on the next words.
“Mate, we did it. We actually did it.”
And all you can do is watch.
Watch as the boy they said would never get there—the one who partied too much, joked too often, the one whose Instagram presence was once louder than his race results—becomes a World Champion.
All the doubt. The noise. The criticism that he wasn’t focused enough, that he didn’t want it badly enough, that he was all talent and no grit.
All of it fades.
Because right now, he’s sitting in that car, heart racing, lungs burning, and for the first time in his life—he’s not chasing anything.
He is it.
And the world knows it now, too.
And when he gets out of the car, he doesn’t walk—he runs.
Helmet discarded somewhere beside the cockpit, fireproofs unzipped to his waist, curls damp with sweat and eyes wide with disbelief. He makes a beeline for his team, for the sea of orange behind the barriers that’s already surging forward to meet him.
They catch him mid-sprint—arms around his shoulders, hands tugging him in, someone lifting him clean off the ground. It’s chaos. It’s joy.
He’s shouting but the words are swallowed by the noise. He high-fives everyone in reach, hugs everyone twice. There’s champagne in his hair and grease on his face, and none of it matters because he’s glowing.
Zak’s there—he grabs him in a bear hug that lingers, something weightier in it than celebration. Belief. Pride. Gratitude.
And still, through it all, Lando’s looking around. Scanning the crowd, past the engineers, past the cameras.
It’s all blur and noise and euphoria.
But then he sees you.
And he just stops.
The grin softens. The noise fades. For a second, it’s like the entire world narrows to a single point—just you, standing a few feet away, tears in your eyes and hands shaking because you know what this means. What it cost.
He doesn’t say anything. Just stares.
You manage a smile, your voice quiet but steady. “World Champion.”
His eyes flicker, glassy and overwhelmed. He breathes out, almost a laugh, almost a sob. And then he’s closing the distance in two long strides, pulling you into him with the kind of hug that feels less like celebration and more like gravity. Like home.
Neither of you says a word. You don’t need to.
Post-Race Interviews - Abu Dhabi
He keeps it together, like he always does.
The backdrop is chaos—fans screaming, fireworks still echoing in the distance, champagne drying sticky on his suit—but Lando stands there like he’s done it a hundred times before. The new World Champion. Poised, steady, just enough charm to keep the press fed.
He hits every note.
Thanks the team.
Praises the car.
Mentions the fans, the journey, the people who never stopped believing.
He even makes them laugh once or twice, flashing that signature grin. The one that used to come so easily. The one that now feels just a little more earned.
But you’re watching closely. You always do.
And you see it—how his shoulders stay a touch too tight, how he keeps glancing off-camera like he’s anchoring himself. Like part of him is still trying to catch up to what just happened.
Then it comes. The final question. The soft one, the emotional one they always save for the end.
“Anything you want to say to the people who stood by you through everything? When things were rough?”
And for a moment, he’s quiet.
Not because he doesn’t have an answer—because he does. He just doesn’t want to waste it.
His eyes drift past the mic, past the crowd, and land on you.
You, standing behind the row of PR staff and camera crews. Hands folded. Face calm, but your throat tight. You weren’t supposed to cry today. And yet here you are, blinking fast.
And then he says it.
Soft. Simple.
“Yeah,” he says, holding your gaze. “They know.”
It’s not for the press.
Not for the fans.
Not for the headlines.
It’s for you. And you do.
Champion Celebrations
It’s a blur.
A haze of rooftop lights and clinking glasses, of camera flashes and the distant hum of the city beneath you.
The afterparty is everything you expected and somehow still more.
People are everywhere: sponsors, teammates, old rivals, influencers who barely know what DRS stands for but still want a picture with the World Champion.
Champagne flows like water, the kind that costs more than your rent and comes in bottles larger than your forearm. Someone’s DJing near the pool, and someone else is already in it—fully clothed. There’s a cake shaped like a Formula 1 car. There are speeches. So many speeches.
And Lando?
Lando is in the middle of it all.
He’s glowing.
Eyes bright, curls damp with heat and humidity, suit jacket long gone, top buttons undone. Everyone wants a piece of him, and for the most part, he lets them have it.
Photos, toasts, hugs, a million congratulations.
He laughs, leans into selfies, makes people laugh back. He’s good at this now—being the star. He’s earned it.
But you’re watching from the edge of it all.
And you can see it—the edge under the shine.
It’s subtle.
The way his smile lingers half a second too long.
The way his hand tightens slightly around a champagne glass before setting it down untouched.
The way he scans the crowd after every group photo, eyes skimming faces like he’s looking for someone specific.
There’s something else waiting inside him.
Something quieter.
Something real.
After a few hours, you’re deep in a conversation with someone from comms when you feel his hand curl around your waist.
“Come on,” he murmurs, close to your ear. His voice is low, strained, urgent—not the playful kind of tug he’s known for at parties. This is different.
He doesn’t say where you’re going, just guides you through the crush of bodies and noise, slipping between people who reach out for high-fives, congratulations, photos. He barely acknowledges them. His hand never leaves yours.
You follow him—past the bar, down a quiet hallway lit only by the low amber glow of wall sconces, then out through a glass door that clicks shut behind you.
The air outside is cooler. Calmer. The city stretches wide below, glittering in the night, and the bass from the party fades to a distant thump behind the thick glass.
You turn to look at him.
He’s already facing you.
And he looks… wrecked.
Not physically. Not tired. Not drunk. Just—emotionally raw. Like the weight of the last few hours, the last few months, is finally pressing down.
Lando scrubs a hand over his face, then exhales like he’s trying to release something too big to name. His curls are slightly damp at the temples, his shirt wrinkled and untucked from where people have hugged him, spilled drinks, shouted his name.
But none of that’s what matters.
It’s his eyes—bright and wild and terrified in the way only someone who has everything to lose can be.
He looks at you like he’s standing on the edge of something.
Like you are the edge.
“I love you.”
The words land with a kind of force you didn’t expect—like a punch and a balm all at once.
Your breath catches.
“I—what?” you manage, your voice barely more than a whisper. You blink, heart skidding in your chest like it’s forgotten how to beat properly.
Lando’s eyes go wide. “Shit—sorry.”
He runs a hand through his hair, backing up half a step, already looking like he regrets everything. “I didn’t mean to just—say it like that. Not here. Not now. I just—” He exhales hard, hands on his hips, staring at the ground like it might swallow him.
“Okay,” he says finally, voice hoarse. “I can’t do this anymore. Not like this. I need to say something and you don’t have to respond, but if I don’t say it, I’m gonna regret it for the rest of my life.”
You don’t move. Don’t breathe. Just wait.
And then—he steps closer. His hands hover at his sides, not touching you, not yet.
“I know tonight’s supposed to be about the win. About the championship. But none of it feels real unless you’re in it.”
His voice cracks—just a little.
“You were the one constant when everything was uncertain. When I was spiraling. When I didn’t believe in myself, you did. And I’ve been pretending that being professional is more important than being honest, but—” he swallows hard, “—the truth is, I didn’t cross that finish line thinking about the title. I crossed it thinking about you.”
You blink, lips parting, heart hammering.
He smiles, but it’s pained. “And I know it’s messy. I know what it could cost. But I’d risk it. I am risking it. Because winning the world championship doesn’t mean anything if I don’t get to turn around and find you there.”
A beat of silence stretches between you. The city lights flicker. The glass door hums faintly behind you.
“And I swear I will protect you,” he says, voice steadier now but eyes burning. “From anything. From the team, from our bosses, from the media. I swear I’ll tell them to terminate my contract and tell the media to shut the fuck up if they say a single bad thing about you.”
His hand finds yours again—firm, grounding, like he’s anchoring both of you to the moment.
“You’re not just some storyline they get to twist,” he adds, quieter now, but no less fierce. “You’re not the girl behind the driver, or the PR rep who lost control. You’re the one who held me together when no one else knew I was falling apart.”
Your throat tightens. You try to speak, but all that comes out is a shaky breath.
He squeezes your hand.
“So if you’re scared, fine. Me too. But don’t walk away from this because of what they might say. Let them talk. Let them speculate. Let them try to reduce this to some stupid headline.”
He leans in, closer now, forehead nearly brushing yours.
“They don’t know you,” he whispers. “I do.”
There’s a beat of silence between you.
“I would advise against telling the media to ‘shut the fuck up,’” you say, finally cracking a smile, voice dry but warm.
He lets out a breathless laugh—relieved, shaky, like it’s the first one that’s come easy all night.
“Yeah?” he says, eyes flicking down to your mouth, then back up. You nod, deadpan.
“Would cause very bad press.”
He huffs a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Right. God forbid McLaren ends up with headlines like ‘Driver Snaps at Media in Defense of Mystery Woman.’”
You smirk. “Mystery woman?”
“Trying to keep it classy.”
“You’re not classy.”
“Okay, fair,” he says, grinning now. “But I am in love with you. That counts for something, right?”
Your face softens despite yourself. “It does.”
He hesitates—just for a breath—and then, quieter, almost like he’s afraid to break the moment:
“Can I kiss you now?”
You roll your eyes, but there’s no real bite to it—just that familiar, fond exasperation he always seems to pull from you.
“Yeah,” you say, voice soft with a smile. “You can.”
He doesn’t wait after that. Just steps forward and kisses you—like it’s been building for months like he’s finally breathing and like he’s absolutely sure because for once, he is.
You pull back a breath later, still close, still smiling—his hands resting lightly on your waist, your fingers curled into the lapels of his jacket like you’re afraid to let go. The city lights blur behind him, but his face is sharp, real, grinning like he’s never been happier.
“I love you, too,“ you whisper against his lips.
“Does this mean I can get shitfaced now?” he asks, hopeful and half-teasing.
You narrow your eyes, pretending to be stern and pulling back to look at him. “I swear to God, if I have to clean up your mess tomorrow—if I find you asleep in a bathtub or wearing no shoes again—”
He laughs, a real, warm sound, and leans in to press a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “I’ll behave.”
“Lando—”
“No, I mean it.” His voice drops, steadies. “With you by my side? Always.”
thank you all so so much for reading this story!! I loved seeing your comments and thoughts on it and how you got excited and were so into the story. thank you!!
if you want you can find my upcoming story here. It‘s called Faking It and the first chapter will be posted soon, however I‘ve included a little sneak peak when you follow the link
AHHHHHHHHHH😭😭😭😭😭😭✋🏽✋🏽✋🏽 tis is the first time I'm sending anon ask so sorry for being weird but just wanted to say I recently found your page and I'm so grateful that I did cuz I might be a Lil to obsessed with your writing style 😭😭😭😭 tqsm for the quality content author :)
summary: After Lando's many escapes his team finally decides to get him a new pr manager or how he calls it a 'babysitter'. A relationship that's meant to be strictly professional but after a night out things happen that aren't to professional anymore
a/n: This is NOT the epilouge, I promise. But I decided to split the last part because I‘m not completely done writing the rest of it but wanted to give you the first part.
2.6k words
masterlist
Abu Dhabi Grand Prix - Final Race weekend
The interview after FP2 is chaos—exactly the kind of mess you were hoping to avoid. Lando’s back to his old self, the one you spent weeks trying to manage, trying to smooth over. The guy who’d say anything to get a laugh, or a rise, or just to get the attention back on him.
You’re standing off to the side, arms crossed tightly, watching as he grins wide in front of the Sky Sports mic, tossing off jokes like they’re nothing, saying whatever comes to his head without a single filter.
“So, Lando, how are you feeling about your performance today? Especially looking forward to the last qualifying of the season tomorrow?” the reporter asks, grinning as if she already knows what’s coming. She’s got that smile, the one that always makes you want to roll your eyes when he flirts with her.
He leans in just a little too much, his tone casual but full of that sharp edge. “Oh, I’m feeling pretty good. I mean, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t think I was the best driver out there—if I wasn’t a little bit of a genius, you know?”
The reporter laughs, clearly feeding into it. “A little bit of a genius, huh? So what do you think was the key to that lap?”
“Oh, easy,” he says, winking like he’s rehearsed it. “I’ve got the best team behind me, and, well, a little bit of luck doesn’t hurt, either. Although I have to admit, it helps when you’re as good-looking as I am.”
You can feel the blood rushing to your face.
Your looks have nothing to do with your performance, you want to scream.
You want to step in, to cut him off, but you know he’s already deep in his element. The cameras love this version of him, the one who plays the role to perfection. And part of you knows that if you interrupt now, it’ll be worse.
The reporter leans in a little closer, playing into the flirtation. “And what about tonight? You gonna celebrate your performance?”
“Oh, I always celebrate after a good session,” Lando says, his tone lowering just enough to make it sound like an invitation. “Though, I’d say the best way to celebrate is with someone who can keep up with me. How about it, eh?”
The reporter laughs, a little too flustered for someone who’s clearly used to this kind of thing. But you can see the way she shifts, clearly flattered, but also loving the attention.
You hate this. You hate watching him slip back into the familiar, carefree version of himself that you had worked so hard to distance from.
The questions continue, but you can’t focus on the answers anymore. You’re just standing there, watching him play the part again, and all you want to do is march over and drag him away.
But you don’t.
And it stings more than you’d like to admit.
Later, when it’s over, he walks over to you, grinning like he just got away with something.
“See? Easy. Didn’t even need you to babysit me this time.”
You take a deep breath, keeping your voice level. “Yeah, you were brilliant. A real genius.”
He quirks an eyebrow, clearly not picking up on the sarcasm. “You know, I think you could use a bit more fun in your life, maybe I should teach you some of my charm techniques.”
Your jaw tightens. You just nod.
He’s back to his old self. And you don’t know whether you’re relieved or furious.
Hospitality Suite, Saturday Afternoon
The paddock is buzzing, humid, loud with media and heat. Lando’s slouched on the hospitality couch like he’s trying to merge with it—cap pulled low, arms crossed, eyes on a random race replay he’s not actually watching.
Oscar walks in, clocks it immediately.
“You good?” he asks, popping open a Red Bull. “Or is this just your new personality now?”
Lando doesn’t look at him. “What do you want, mate?”
Oscar raises an eyebrow. “Okay. So it is a mood.”
“Didn’t sleep much.”
“You never sleep much.” Oscar drops into the chair beside him. “You’re being weird.”
“I’m always weird.”
“Yeah, but this is like… ‘brooding indie film protagonist’ weird.” He pauses. Oscar watches him for a long moment, arms folded. The hum of the paddock is distant background noise now—clinking tools, murmured radios, the occasional thrum of an engine being tested. But here, in this corner of the garage, it’s just the two of them.
Lando is sitting on the edge of a workbench, elbows on his knees, picking absently at the fraying edge of his wrist tape like it personally offended him.
Oscar speaks carefully, like he’s not sure how hard to push. “You’ve been weird all day. Snappy with the engineers, didn’t even look at your run plan, and you’ve redone your gloves like three times.”
Lando doesn’t respond.
Oscar tilts his head. “This about her?”
Still nothing. Just more wrist tape.
Oscar narrows his eyes. “You’re not even gonna deny it?”
Lando shrugs. “Why should I?” His voice is quiet, flat. “Doesn’t matter anyway.”
“You like her, and she backed off. So you’re doing that thing—” Oscar waves a vague hand, “—where you get mean instead of honest. Classic move.”
Lando shoots him a glare. “You’re making a lot of assumptions for someone who still uses Google Maps to find the pit lane.”
Oscar grins. “Deflection. Another classic.”
He leans against the wall across from him, studying him. “You were on top of the world last week. That afterparty where you couldn’t stop smiling—you didn’t do anything PR disaster worthy. You don’t go from that to this for no reason.”
Lando scoffs under his breath. “Yeah, well. That’s the thing, isn’t it? Turns out it meant something to me and not to her. Or it did, and now it’s a problem. Professional lines or whatever.” He peels a bit more tape, wincing when it catches his skin. “So I backed off.”
Oscar frowns. “She told you that?”
Lando finally looks up, eyes tired and guarded. “Not in words. But, yeah. I got the message.”
Oscar’s quiet for a second. “Mate… she picked you up drunk at 3 a.m. in joggers and no makeup, let you puke in her bathroom, slept sitting up with your head on her lap, then held your hand in the medical center while they poked at your ribs.”
Lando’s jaw tenses.
“You don’t do that for someone who doesn’t mean anything,” Oscar adds.
Lando exhales through his nose, dragging a hand down his face. “Yeah, well. Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe she does care. But she’s smart enough to know it can’t go anywhere.”
Oscar tilts his head. “And you’re just gonna give up? Sit around brooding like a kicked puppy instead of, I don’t know, talking to her?”
Lando doesn’t answer right away.
Oscar huffs a soft laugh. “God, you’re worse than a soap opera.”
“Shut up,” Lando mutters, but there’s no heat behind it.
Oscar pushes off the wall. “Just… don’t act like it didn’t mean anything. To either of you. You don’t look at someone the way you looked at her after Belgium if it’s just a phase.“
Lando looks away, but his hands still.
“Figure it out,” Oscar says over his shoulder as he walks off. “Before you drive the both of you mad.”
Lando doesn’t reply. But later, before heading to the garage, he shoots off a message.
Still on for post-session review later? Just us?
I’ll behave.
And he means it. Or at least, he wants to.
The debrief room is quiet. Most of the team has already filtered out after the full post-session meeting, leaving just the two of you behind—him on one end of the long table, you with your laptop open, pretending to be hyper-focused on whatever your laptop screen showed.
You’re not.
Not when his knee keeps tapping rhythmically against the leg of your chair. Not when he’s unusually quiet. Focused. Still.
You snap the laptop shut with more force than intended, the sound slicing through the tense silence like a blade. Arms crossed tight across your chest, you glare across the room where he sits—legs bouncing, fingers tugging at the cuff of his hoodie like he can’t sit still.
“Do you have any more questions,” you say, voice sharp, “because if we’re done, I might as well leave right now.”
You push your chair back, the legs scraping against the floor, and start walking toward the door.
You make it halfway there before his voice stops you.
“Why are you doing that?”
You freeze mid-step. Still facing away from him.
“Doing what?” you ask, not trusting yourself to turn around yet.
“That thing where you pretend nothing happened,” he says, quieter now but no less urgent. “Like we imagined it. Or it’s just… too inconvenient to deal with.”
Your fingers tighten around the doorknob, and your voice comes out low. “Lando, this isn’t a game. It’s complicated. It’s not just you and me. There’s the team. Your brand. The media. The rules.”
There’s a pause—just long enough to make you think he might let it go.
Then his voice comes, quieter, but sharper. “And how come you realize this now? Almost six months later?”
You turn halfway toward him, eyes searching his face. “Maybe I should’ve realized it sooner,” you admit, your voice cracking just slightly. “Maybe I let it go too far. Let us go too far.”
He shakes his head slowly, frustration flickering in his eyes. “No, don’t do that. Don’t rewrite it like it was some mistake that got away from you.”
“I’m not,” you say quickly, stepping back from the door now. “I’m not saying it wasn’t real. I’m saying maybe it was reckless. Maybe it was selfish.”
You hear the rustle of fabric as he stands.
“You think I don’t know that? You think I haven’t thought about what this could screw up? About Zak finding out, or someone leaking something, or the PR nightmare it would cause if this all blew up?”
His voice is closer now. Measured, but there’s something raw in it too. “But I’m not pretending it didn’t happen. I’m not pretending it didn’t matter. And I don’t get why you are.”
You turn slowly, and your eyes meet his. The weight of it nearly knocks the breath out of you—because even now, even after all this, he’s still looking at you like you’re the only person in the room.
You don’t say anything, not right away. Your heart is pounding, jaw tight, nails digging into your palms like they can ground you in something logical.
He runs a hand through his curls, exhaling hard, then drops his arm again. “Just… stop running, okay?” His tone is quieter now, no demand—just a plea. “If this doesn’t mean anything to you, fine. But don’t lie about it.”
“Because you could lose me everything I’ve worked for all these years,” you whisper, the words barely making it past your throat.
Lando’s expression shifts. Not angry. Not shocked. Just… quiet.
He nods once, slowly, like the weight of your fear finally lands with him.
Lando goes still. Whatever response he had ready dies on his lips.
Your voice doesn’t shake, but it’s brittle at the edges, like glass that’s been under pressure for too long.
“It’s not even that I would lose my job,” you say, arms still folded, but not in defense anymore—just trying to hold yourself together. “That’s not the only thing. It’s the fact I would lose my credibility. That I’d have the reputation of the young PR girl who fell in love with a driver—”
You laugh once, humorless.
“Hell, that’s probably not even what they’d write. It’d be more like: the young PR girl who slept her way to the top.”
Lando’s jaw tightens. His hands ball into fists at his sides, and his voice, when it comes, is low and steady—but shaking with restrained anger.
“That’s bullshit,” he says.
You meet his eyes. “It doesn’t matter if it’s bullshit. It’s real. It’s what people would think. It’s what they’d say. And maybe you could ignore it—shake it off, post something snarky on Instagram—but I’d have to live with it. Every single day.”
He steps forward, slow, like he’s approaching something fragile. Because he is.
“I would never ask you to risk that,” he says, voice low, steady. “I know what this job means to you. What you’ve built. I’ve seen how hard you fight for it—how hard you fight for me when no one else sees it.”
You look away, throat tight. “Doesn’t change what’s at stake.”
“No,” he agrees. “But you think I’d let it ruin you? After everything?” he says, voice low, fierce in a way that’s not angry—just raw.
You look at him, exhausted. Not from him, but from the weight of it all. The constant calculating. The fear.
“The problem is… you can’t, Lando.”
Your voice is quiet, but it cuts through the space between you.
“You can’t control what they think and write. You can’t charm a headline into being kind. You can’t post your way out of this one.”
He opens his mouth like he wants to argue—but then closes it. Because he knows you’re right.
You continue, more gently now. “It’s not just about what we are. It’s about what they’ll turn us into.”
summery: After Lando's many escapes his team finally decides to get him a new pr manager or how he calls it a 'babysitter'. A relationship that's meant to be strictly professional but after a night out things happen that aren't to professional anymore
a/n: Oh oh…
2.8k words
masterlist
Brazil Grand Prix - penultimate race weekend of the season
It’s supposed to be a standard post-quali interview. Lando’s second for the race, not pole, but still a strong result, still a solid position for the fight for the win tomorrow and the championship. He’s relaxed. Buzzed on adrenaline. Smiling the way he does when the race has taken the edge off.
You’re standing just off-camera, arms crossed, headset half-on, keeping one ear on the feed, the other on the room. Normal stuff. Routine.
Then the reporter—chipper, too observant—leans in with a grin and says in a more than suggestive tone, “You and your PR manager seem close these days, huh?”
You freeze.
Eyes lock with Lando’s for half a second. Your stomach drops.
The smart answer would be to laugh. Brush it off. Say something vaguely professional and pivot like “Yeah, our work relationship is great”. That’s what he should do. That’s what you’re begging him to do with your eyes.
But he doesn’t even blink.
“She keeps me in check,” he says easily, voice calm. Then adds, quieter, without the usual grin, “I’d be lost without her.”
Not a joke. Not even slightly. And no mention about the professionalism of your relationship.
The reporter blinks, thrown. Smiles as if she knows she just got a headline out of him. And you know it too.
The damage is done.
You feel it like a hit to the chest. Something shifts in the air. The interview wraps up a few minutes later, but you barely hear it.
Because that tone?
It wasn’t media-friendly.
It was real. Too real.
You turn away before he walks back toward you, pretend you’re on a call, pretend you didn’t hear any of it. Pretend your pulse isn’t climbing.
Because now it’s all spiraling—
What people will say.
What Zak might think.
How it looks.
How fast this has all happened.
How easily it could ruin everything.
For him. For you. For the work you’ve done, the trust you’ve built.
You send the message—I need to talk to you—and you don’t even have time to set your phone down before it lights up with her name.
“Hey,” you answer quietly.
“Jesus, what happened?” she says, skipping the hello entirely. “Are you okay?”
You close your eyes. “Yeah. No. I don’t know.”
There’s a pause, a breath, and then softly, “Talk to me.”
So you do.
“Okay,” you sigh into the phone, your voice low. “Here goes.”
She’s silent on the other end, listening.
“It started off as—God, I hated him. He was cocky, careless, always saying something stupid just to get a reaction. It was constant—eye rolls, biting sarcasm, him calling me bossy, me calling him a PR disaster. He was a PR disaster.”
A soft chuckle from her end.
“But then…” you trail off for a second, sorting through the blur in your head. “Then I started seeing more of him. Like, the real him. When no one’s watching. He’d send me stupid memes at 2am or text me just to rant about the pressure. I’d find myself defending him in meetings before I even realized I was doing it.”
You pause, chewing your lip.
“He started trusting me. Telling me things. Things I don’t think he even tells his team. And somewhere in the middle of that… I started caring. Like, not just doing-my-job caring. Actually caring.”
Another breath.
“He’s… not what people think,” you murmur, staring at your ceiling. “He’s actually—when he lets you see it—he’s kind, and loyal, and god, sometimes just a mess. But he lets me see that. And now I—fuck, I don’t even know when it happened, but I need him.”
She doesn’t interrupt. Just lets you pour it out.
You exhale, the kind of breath that drags something raw up with it. “There was this night in Monaco…”
Your best friend hums, soft encouragement.
“He called me at 3am. Drunk out of his mind. Slurring his words, didn’t know where he was. Said he went out with some randoms and ended up alone. I should’ve been mad—was mad—but I still got in the car and picked him up.”
You pause, remembering the way he’d leaned into you, heavy and helpless. The way his head fit into the crook of your neck like he’d done it a hundred times before.
“I brought him back to my apartment. He puked his guts out in my bathroom, and I just… stayed with him. On the floor. He fell asleep with his head in my lap and asked me to stay. And I did.”
There’s a beat of silence, the weight of memory hanging between you.
“Then Belgium happened,” you say quietly. “The crash.”
You feel her go still on the line.
“I got to him just as the medics were backing off. And he looked at me—really looked. Like I was the only thing grounding him. I hugged him and he winced and still didn’t let go. And later, when the doctors were checking him over, he just—he held my hand the entire time. Wouldn’t let go. Like he needed me there to breathe.”
Your voice cracks a little. “And after… I brushed his hair back while he sat on the bed and he looked at me like… like he was scared I’d disappear.”
You took a deep breath while you best friend stayed quiet, listening and waiting for you to keep talking.
“And now it’s like… I can’t stop. I walk into a room and I look for him. Every time my phone buzzes, I hope it’s him. I know what makes him laugh. I know what kind of coffee he drinks when he’s nervous. I know when he’s pretending to be fine, and I hate how easily I can read him now.”
You go quiet, because saying it out loud makes it feel even more dangerous.
Your best friend finally speaks, gentle. “And you think this is just a phase?”
You shut your eyes. “No. I think this is real. That’s the problem.”
And then, finally, you say it: “I can’t keep doing this.”
That’s when she breaks her silence. “Why not?”
“Because it’s unprofessional,” you snap, hating how bitter you sound. “Because Zak would lose it if he found out. Because the press would rip me apart. Because I’m not supposed to fall for him.”
There’s another pause, but this one feels heavier. “You think he doesn’t feel the same?”
You swallow. “I know he does.”
“Then what are you so scared of?”
“I’m scared,” you whisper, “that being with him would mean losing everything I’ve worked for. My job. My credibility. My reputation. They’d say I got too close. That I crossed a line.”
“And if you walk away?” she asks gently.
You press your lips together. “Then I lose him.”
She exhales, not pitying you, just quiet. “That sounds a lot like choosing fear over something real.”
You blink hard, staring at the phone screen, throat tight.
“You’ve always handled everything with grace,” she adds. “But maybe this time… maybe you’re allowed to want something. Even if it’s messy.”
Even if it’s him.
It starts small.
One seat over in the briefing room. Then another. Until suddenly, you’re at the far end of the table, tucked near Zak or one of the comms leads, and Lando’s left with an empty chair where you used to be.
You still text him. You don’t ignore him. But the tone shifts.
Gone are the long back-and-forths, the late-night sarcasm, the lazy memes you’d both trade during downtime. Now it’s all clipped. Dry. Professional.
“Confirmed.”
“Will sort.”
“On it.”
When he bumps your shoulder in the garage—his usual way of saying hey, still here, still us—you don’t react. Just offer a distracted smile and move on. You don’t meet his eyes like you used to, like there was a secret only you two were in on.
And he notices.
God, does he notice.
At first, he tells himself you’re just tired. Jet-lagged. From Vegas to Brazil ha ha, his brain plays him.
Pulled into other responsibilities. Maybe Zak’s got you running new sponsor activations or god knows what. You’re busy, that’s all. It’s fine.
But by day two, he’s spiraling.
You laugh at something someone else says in the paddock, and he watches it like it’s betrayal. You walk past without looking up from your clipboard, and it lands like a punch.
He sends a text—“Did I do something?”—and when your reply comes back almost twenty minutes later, it just says:
“No. All good.”
All good.
You’ve never said that to him before.
And now he can’t sit still in the garage. Fumbles through briefings. Snaps at his engineer. The race feels a thousand miles away because all he can think about is how quickly you slipped through his fingers.
And how he doesn’t know how to get you back.
He throws his gloves down harder than necessary. Not a slam, but sharp. Final. Like he’s making a point no one asked him to make.
You glance up from the timing sheets. “You good?”
It’s not the way you usually say it—not soft, not familiar. Just… a check-in. Like you would with anyone.
“Yeah,” he mutters, not looking at you.
You nod, about to turn back to your notes, when his voice cuts through again—louder this time, tight around the edges.
“Just wondering when exactly I turned into someone you can’t stand to be around.”
You freeze.
“Lando—”
“No, it’s cool,” he interrupts, that bratty bite slipping in like muscle memory. “I get it. Had your fun. Managed the mess. Moved on to the next driver who needs babysitting, right?”
Your heart stutters. You blink at him, stunned.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
He shrugs, eyes locked on the floor like it’s the only thing steadying him. His voice is fake-casual, but the shake in it is impossible to miss.
“You’re the one pulling away. I’m just matching the energy.”
But he’s not. You see it—the way his jaw clenches, the way his fingers twitch like he’s holding something in, or maybe holding something back. He still won’t look at you. Not really.
And for a moment, you don’t know what to say.
Because you’re angry.
Because he’s hurt.
Because you’re both standing in the middle of the garage with the noise of the race still ringing in your ears and everything between you starting to crack like a fault line.
You take a breath.
And he still doesn’t look up.
The debrief ends. Everyone files out in that usual post-quali shuffle—some murmurs, a few clipped jokes, chairs scraping back.
Lando doesn’t wait.
No casual nudge. No smirk. No offhand “come on, you owe me a snack run.” He just gets up and walks out.
You feel the distance like a slap. But you follow anyway, chewing on the inside of your cheek the whole way down the hall, steps quickening until you catch him just outside the garage near the paddock gate. The lights are low. Most of the media’s cleared out. It’s just the two of you—and the weight of everything you’ve both been too stubborn to say.
“You done being a child?” you snap, not even bothering to soften it.
He spins on his heel, eyes sharp.
“Are you done pretending we’re strangers?”
The air between you tightens.
You clench your jaw. He’s pissed—really pissed—and maybe he has a right to be. But he doesn’t get to rewrite the whole thing like you just dropped him for fun.
You fold your arms. “I just… I needed to take a step back. Things were getting—complicated.”
He scoffs, biting down a laugh like it tastes bitter. “You mean you started feeling something and didn’t like it.”
Your eyes flash. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what, exactly?” His voice rises, frustration cutting through. “Say what we’re both pretending isn’t happening? Sorry, I missed the memo—was it just me lying awake at night wondering if I was going completely fucking insane?”
Your heart lurches. You want to say no. You want to say me too. But it’s easier to put walls back up. So you say the thing you’ve been clinging to like a shield.
“You’re my job.”
That lands hard.
He stares at you for a long moment, like he doesn’t recognize the version of you standing in front of him. Then he lets out a sharp, humorless laugh.
“Right. Just your job.”
And before you can stop him, before you can think of something to fix it, or explain, or beg him to wait—
summary: After Lando's many escapes his team finally decides to get him a new pr manager or how he calls it a 'babysitter'. A relationship that's meant to be strictly professional but after a night out things happen that aren't to professional anymore
a/n: the calm before the storm 🫣
3.9k words
masterlist
The heat of the Las Vegas desert clings to everything—your clothes, your hair, the air between breaths. But Lando’s already mid-smirk in front of the Sky mic, hands tucked into his fireproofs, looking a little too pleased with himself for someone still healing.
The reporter starts with the obvious.
“You took a bit of a hit last weekend—how are you feeling now? Back to full strength?”
He shrugs lightly, playing it cool, but you can see it in the way he moves—still a little careful, a little stiff. “Yeah, better. Not perfect. My ribs still hate me when I sneeze, but I’ve survived worse.”
You shift just out of frame, tablet in hand, watching the interview closely. It’s your usual spot now, a presence he always seems to glance toward, even when he pretends not to. You catch his eyes flick toward you for a half second before he answers again.
“Honestly, I’ve been well taken care of,” he adds, and there’s a little tilt to his voice now. Teasing, but not overly so. “Good people around me. Some of them very bossy.”
You don’t even try to hide your sigh.
The reporter laughs. “Bossy?”
He grins wider. “You’d be surprised who takes your phone away when you’re ‘not resting enough.’” His eyes dart to you again—this time, clear and not even subtle.
The reporter raises a brow. “Someone from the team?”
He doesn’t answer. Just smiles like that is the answer.
The truth is, it’s been different this week.
You had been texting basically 24/7. Quick updates, dumb memes, him pretending to be miserable so you’d bring him coffee to his room. You’ve both been circling something—closer now, less guarded. It’s not like it was before.
And Wednesday night made that crystal clear.
He showed up at your hotel room door at 9PM. No warning, just a knock and him standing there, hoodie up, hands in his pockets. You blinked at him, confused.
“Come on,” he’d said. “You mentioned you’ve never been to Las Vegas and that’s honestly a crime.”
“What? You gonna show me the casinos?” you said, folding your arms.
He grinned. “Hell yeah, and some amazing food spots.”
And that was that.
You ended up walking around for hours—just the two of you, sneakers echoing on damp pavement, the neon glow of the strip swaying around you. Las Vegas buzzed around you, the casinos and bars in full swing and sizzling food stalls between, but none of it really touched the little world you’d slipped into.
Lando provided a running commentary on nearly every street sign, pretending to narrate a dramatic travel documentary in a terrible fake accent.
“And here we see the rare PR manager, native to the chaos of Formula 1, attempting to survive without throttling her driver.”
You rolled your eyes so hard it almost hurt. “You’re insufferable.”
He grinned. “That’s not what you said when I brought you coffee last week.”
“That was a peace offering. And you spilled half of it.”
He ignored that. “Still counts.”
At one point, he stopped in front of a food stall with skewers of something vaguely unidentifiable and entirely suspicious. He gave you a look.
“Bet you won’t.”
“Bet I will.”
You shouldn’t have. It was chewy. And vaguely sweet. And definitely not what either of you thought it was.
He laughed so hard he doubled over—then groaned immediately after, clutching his side. “Ow. Worth it.”
“Finish it,” you told him, pushing the skewer into his hand.
“No way.”
“You dared me.”
“You accepted!”
“You’re the one who said, ‘go on, live a little,’” you mocked.
“I meant emotionally!”
Still, he took a bite. Wince-laughed. Made a dramatic choking sound just for effect.
By the time you made it back to the hotel, it was way past midnight. Your feet ached, and your cheeks hurt from smiling. He didn’t ask to come in, didn’t push anything. Just leaned against the doorframe of your room, hoodie slipping off his head, and gave you a tired, crooked grin.
“Thanks for tonight,” he said softly.
And you realized then—you didn’t even mind the weird street snack.
Pre-session debriefs used to be a blur for Lando—notes, numbers, a dozen people talking over each other while he half-listened and pretended to care until it was time to actually get in the car. But lately, something about them has shifted.
Maybe it’s you.
You always sit across the table from him now, not by accident. Always with your notes in that worn notebook, your pen tapping against the corner of the page when you’re thinking. You still remind him to stay on-message, still keep your tone sharp when he slips into sarcasm, but now he catches the way your lips twitch when you’re trying not to smile at one of his smarter comebacks.
During a particularly dry pre-FP1 meeting, he steals your pen while you’re distracted.
You glare. He just writes “this sucks” across the corner of your notebook and slides it back.
You don’t laugh out loud, but he sees it in your eyes.
Sometimes he passes you notes on spare paper—tiny drawings of the engineers, stick figures in chaos, one time a doodle of Zak in a cape labeled saviour of British motorsport (which you did not show anyone).
You always roll your eyes and scribble something back, half scolding, half entertained. It’s stupid. It’s nothing.
But it’s not really nothing. Not anymore.
And Zak’s not blind.
After FP2, Zak pulls Lando aside. Not in front of the others. Not in a raised-voice, reprimanding way. Just… casual. Firm.
“Hey,” he says. “Got a second?”
Lando slows, glances around like maybe he can duck out of this. He can’t. “Sure.”
They stop just outside the garage. Zak folds his arms.
“I’ve noticed things,” Zak starts, tone neutral. “You and your media manager seem… close.”
Lando’s jaw ticks. “She’s good at her job.”
“She is,” Zak agrees. “One of the best we’ve had. Which is why I don’t want things to get messy.”
Lando frowns. “It’s not like that.”
Zak raises an eyebrow. “Isn’t it?”
Lando looks down, then away, sighs. “It’s not just a fling, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“I’m not worried about what it is,” Zak replies evenly. “I’m worried about what it could cost—her, mostly. You’ll be fine either way. But her? If this goes sideways, she’s the one who’ll have to explain it.”
That hits. Harder than Lando expects.
Zak continues, “If you respect her, and her career, make sure you’re thinking ten steps ahead. Not just about how you feel this week.”
Lando swallows, nods slowly. “I get it.”
“Good.” Zak claps a hand on his shoulder. “Then I won’t say anything more. Just… don’t be an idiot.”
He walks off, leaving Lando standing there in the soft roar of the paddock noise, chewing on those words like they’re stuck in his throat.
Don’t be an idiot.
For once, he really doesn’t want to be.
It’s quali day in Vegas—heat clinging to every inch of the paddock, nerves running tight beneath every casual smile, and you’re midway through a conversation you didn’t expect to enjoy.
You’re standing with another driver, someone harmless—older, funny in a dry way, charming in that effortless, international sort of way. You’re laughing at something he says. Just laughing. Nothing more.
Until you catch movement over his shoulder.
Lando.
He’s walking toward you with a purpose you know too well by now—his “PR voice” already halfway activated before he’s even within earshot. Sunglasses pushed up into his curls, jaw set, the kind of expression that says don’t question me.
“Hey,” he cuts in smoothly, nodding at the other driver with a practiced, polite smile that’s one watt too dim. “Sorry, mind if I steal her? We’ve got to run through the comms brief. Last-minute updates.”
You raise a brow. There are no last-minute updates.
The driver backs off easily, giving Lando a friendly pat on the shoulder before disappearing into the crowd.
You turn to him, arms crossing. “Really?”
“What?” he asks innocently, not looking at you. “Strategy stuff. Comms. Media. Whatever.”
“You just made up half a department to get me out of a conversation.”
He scratches the back of his neck, eyes still avoiding yours. “I didn’t like how he looked at you.”
You blink. “Lando.”
He finally meets your gaze, sheepish now. “Sorry. That’s dumb. Just ignore me.”
And it is dumb. You both know that.
But there’s something in the way he says it—quiet, almost unsure—that makes you soften despite yourself. Something in the way his voice trails at the end, like maybe he doesn’t expect you to.
You roll your eyes, nudging his arm with yours.
“You owe me a very real comms brief now.”
He smiles, just barely. “Deal. I’ll make up a fake strategy plan too, just to sell it.”
Vegas GP Weekend – Sunday Night
He finds you backstage at the hospitality suite, hours after the podium celebration has died down. The crew’s scattered. Everyone’s buzzing from the win, but you’ve stayed behind, tying up press schedules for the next race and rechecking sponsor deliverables because of course you have. You don’t celebrate like everyone else.
So naturally, he finds you.
“Maybe you should get injured more often if this is the outcome the following week,“ you tease when he’s close enough.
“Come out with me,” Lando says, leaning against the doorframe like a smug little menace, already in a clean black tee and sneakers that cost more than your flight here.
It catches you off guard and you glance up. “Out where?”
“It’s Vegas,” he says, like it answers everything.
Which, technically, it does.
You narrow your eyes. “You want me to go out in Vegas with you—after a race weekend, after a win, while you’re this hyped, with all the lights and clubs and chaos waiting for you just outside that door?”
He nods, still grinning. “Exactly.”
“I’m not dragging you out of a nightclub at 3AM, Lando.”
He puts a hand to his chest, mock-offended. “I said come with me. Not babysit me.”
You eye him skeptically. “Isn’t that basically the same thing?”
But he doesn’t take the bait. He just gives you that small, earnest shrug you’re starting to recognize as real. “You helped me get here. Let me drag you out for once.”
It takes you a beat to say yes. But something about tonight feels… lighter. Safe, even.
So you go.
And true to his word, he behaves.
Not just Vegas-behaves. He actually behaves.
No shots. No drunken laps around the club. No disappearing acts or scandalous Insta stories. No random girls. In fact, he barely takes his eyes off you.
He orders a mocktail. You almost drop your glass. “Who are you and what have you done with the real Lando?”
He just smirks, nudging your shoulder with his. “Saving face. Your training’s working.”
You end up at a rooftop bar with a view of the Strip—neon madness below, music pulsing in your chest, but somehow the moment feels still.
Lando leans on the railing beside you, close but not crowding. “You know,” he says, voice low, “this is more fun than the usual.”
“What? Being boring?”
He chuckles. “Being… present.” He glances over at you. “It’s kinda nice. Not having to perform all the time.”
You tilt your head, half-suspicious. “You sure this isn’t some elaborate ploy to get a glowing PR report on Monday?”
“I don’t need your approval that bad,” he says, smirking. Then softer, “I just… I like this. You. The quiet. No pressure to be on. No need to chase attention when the right one’s standing next to me.”
You blink at him, thrown for a second.
It’s not a line. You know the difference now.
And Lando, of all people, doesn’t say things like that unless he means them.
So you don’t tease. Don’t deflect.
You just say, quietly, “You’re doing better than you think.”
And when he smiles at that—small, sincere, maybe a little proud—you realize this is no longer just about fixing his image.
It’s about figuring out who he is underneath all of it.
And maybe, slowly, you’re both starting to find out.
Vegas GP Weekend – Monday Afternoon
Somewhere between brunch and a hangover, his friends are putting the pieces together.
The hotel suite is a mess of half-finished breakfast trays and celebratory debris from the night before—confetti in the carpet, a couple of party hats no one remembers wearing. Lando’s stretched out on the couch in a hoodie and joggers, far too calm for someone who just won a Grand Prix in Vegas and spent the night out.
Max leans back in the hotel room armchair like he owns the place, sipping something that definitely isn’t just water and smirking like he’s been waiting weeks to say this.
“It’s not the being normal,” he says, nodding toward Lando. “It’s the fact that you didn’t post a single shirtless pic last night that’s got us concerned.”
Max leans forward, staring. “You didn’t even drink last night.”
Lando shrugs without looking up from his phone. “Didn’t feel like it.”
Oscar, half-asleep and curled up under a blanket on the floor, mumbles, “Didn’t flirt with anyone either.”
Max raises an eyebrow. “You literally turned down two models and a DJ. You sure you’re feeling okay?”
Lando rolls his eyes, but there’s no edge to it. “You guys act like I need to cause chaos to enjoy myself.”
Oscar cracks one eye open. “You’ve made it your brand, mate.”
“And now I’m evolving,” Lando says, deadpan.
Max leans forward. “Okay, but seriously. What’s going on? You’ve been different lately. Quieter. Less… I don’t know—feral.”
Lando just grins, a little too pleased with himself. “Maybe I’ve got better things to focus on now.”
Oscar sits up slightly. “Like your PR manager?”
Lando doesn’t answer right away, making Oscar stop for a second.
Oscar notices and glances between the three of them, brow furrowed. “Wait, what?”
Max just shrugs innocently. “I said it to you on the way to Austria, but you weren’t ready to hear it.”
Lando shoots Max a look, warning, quiet. Max ignores it, of course.
“I’m just saying,” Max says, far too casually, “that I’ve seen the shift. Back in Imola, you were ready to let some blonde girl you couldn’t even remember stay over, and then thirty minutes later, you’re calling for her to get out before anything happens.”
Lando groans again and flops onto the couch, arms over his face. “You’re being so dramatic.”
Max doesn’t let up. “Then Monaco. You get black-out drunk, and who do you call to pick you up at 2AM? Not your mates. Not your trainer. Her. And you stayed at her flat. And then—surprise, surprise—you show up on the jet with me and her the next morning looking like a kicked puppy.”
“And since then?” Max shrugs like it’s obvious. “No more randoms, no more headlines. You’ve been—dare I say—tame. And now you’re basically glued to her side and suddenly know how to behave in press conferences?”
Lando mutters from under the pillow, “Can’t believe you stab me in the back like that.”
Max snorts. “Can’t believe I had to be the one to notice your emotional growth.”
Lando pulls the pillow off his face just long enough to glare at Max. “You’re the worst.”
“Zak has been noticing,“ Oscar says after a beat. “I know, you told me already,“ Lando murmurs. Max lifts an eyebrow.
„So Oscar, what else do you know? Considering Mr. Loverboy doesn’t spill,“ Max grins, making Lando groan again.
“She was in his room when we landed, left just before I got to talk to him.“
Max blinks. “Wait. Are you—”
“No,” Lando cuts in, too fast. Then, after a pause— “It’s not like that. I mean… maybe. I don’t know.” He rubs the back of his neck. “She’s just… good for me. Keeps me grounded.”
Oscar whistles. “Wow. Who are you and what have you done with the real Lando?”
Lando finally looks up from his phone. “I didn’t realize being normal was gonna be this shocking.”
Max smirks. “It’s not the being normal. It’s, as I mentioned, the fact that you didn’t post a single shirtless pic last night that’s got us concerned.”
Lando tosses a pillow at him. “Shut up.”
Oscar grins. “So what, she’s your conscience now?”
He shrugs. “Something like that. She gives a shit. Not because she has to—but, like… she actually does. Kind of annoying.”
“You like her,” Max says, far too smug.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t say no.”
Lando just leans back into the couch, pulling his hood over his face to hide the grin he can’t seem to wipe off.
They don’t push it further. They don’t need to.
Because for the first time in a long time, Lando’s not chasing attention.
